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GOSSIP    IN    A    LIBRARY 


O  blessed  Letters,  that  combine  in  one 
Jill  ages  past,  and  make  one  live  with  all: 
'By  you  we  doe  conferre  with  who  are  gone^ 
t/Ind  the  dead- living  unto  c ounce  11  call: 
'By  you  th^  unborne  shall  have  communion 
Of  what  wefeele,  and  what  doth  us  befall, 

Sam.  Daniel:   Musophilus.     1602. 


Gossip  in  a  Library 


BY 

EDMUND    GOSSE 


NEW   YORK 
LOVELL,  CORYELL  &  COMPANY 

43,    45    AND    47    EAST    TENTH    STREET 


} 


TO 

My  FRIEND 

CHARLES     B.     FOOTE 

of  Neiv  York 

BIBLIOPHILE 

tbese  IPa^es  arc  S>e&icate& 


PREFACE 

TO  THE  FIRST  AMERICAN  EDITION 

This  volume  has  the  peculiarity  of  having  been  written  by 
an  English  author  at  the  suggestion  of  an  American  editor, 
and  specially  for  American  readers.  Five  years  ago  my 
lamented  friend,  Mr.  John  Eliot  Bowen,  who  was  then 
conducting  The  Independent  of  New  Tork,  asked  me  to 
contribute  to  that  paper  a  series  of  short  studies  on  the  history 
and  contents  of  certain  famous  or  curious  books,  the  original 
editions  of  all  of  which  should  happen  to  form  part  of  my 
private  library.  The  idea  struck  me  as  a  novel  one. 
The  hook-collector  was  to  deliver  ten-minute  sermons  on 
his  books  to  a  select  audience,  gathered,  in  imagination, 
within  the  room  in  which  those  books  were  kept.  The 
cases  were  to  be  thrown  open  at  random,  a  volume  taken 
out  here  or  there,  and  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  while  the 
owner  chatted  familiarly   about  its  personal  character  and 


viii  Preface 

adventures.     It  seemed  an   undertaking   no  less  easy  than 
delightful. 

The  task,  however,  did  not  turn  out  to  be  quite  so  simple  as 
it  appeared.     It  proved  difficult  to  make  a  selection  among  so 
many  silent  friends.      Then,  as  the  preacher  prepared  his 
little  discourse  on  the  hook  finally  chosen,  he  found  that  he 
was  led  aside  into  many  dangerous  paths  of  biography,  of 
criticism,  of  bibliography.     Allusions,  so    slight    that  the 
audience  would  scarcely  observe  them,  had  to  be  verified ; 
lines  of  suggestion  followed  up  ;  even,  in  not  a  fezv  cases,  a 
certain  amount  of  original  investigation  entered  upon.      The 
reader,  I  fear  and  yet  hope,  in  reading  these  little  chapters, 
will  not  guess  how  much  time  and  trouble  has  been  expended 
on  the  writing  of  them.      This  is  my  sole  excuse  for  having 
been  so  long  in  composing  so  small  a  volume.      But  the  delay 
is  the  more  melancholy  to  me,  because  the  result  of  it  has 
been  that  the  solitary  reader  of  whose  approval  I  could  be 
assured,  "  the  onlie  begetter  of  these  ensuing  "  pages,  Mr. 
Bow  en,  will  never  hold  them  in  his  hand. 

There  is  a  certain  satisfaction  in  addressing  American, 
readers  on  the  subject  of  rare  books.      Gradually,  almost 


Preface  ix 

imperceptiblj,  the  great  home  of  splendid  private  libraries 
is  ceasing  to  be  north-western  Europe,  and  is  becoming  the 
United  States.  We  in  the  East  are  amazed  at  those 
singular  laws  which  inflict  a  severe  punishment  on  the 
American  citizen  who  is  guilty  of  introducing  what  is  beauti- 
ful and  distinguished  into  his  own  country.  Yet  there  are  some 
objects  which  the  most  paternal  protective  tariff  will  never 
cause  to  be  produced  in  a  new  community.  First  editions  of 
Milton  or  of  Moliere  will  scarcely  be  manufactured  in  the 
United  States,  in  spite  of  all  the  Mc Kinky  s,  or,  if  they  are, 
the  i?iterference  of  the  police  will  be  desirable.  Even  the  eccen- 
tricities of  the  Custom-house,  however,  do  not  tend  at  present 
to  check  that  stream  of  emigration  which  empties  the  libraries 
of  Europe,  and  creates  new  and  more  warmly  appreciated 
ones  in  America.  There  is  every  reason  that  the  Americans 
should  become  ideal  booksellers.  If  Dibdin  was  right  when 
he  said  that  civility,  quickness,  and  intelligence  were  the  chief 
requisites  of  a  bibliopole,  America  ought  to  have  no  difficulty 
in  supplying  these  qualities.  She  possesses  already,  in  the 
Grolier  Club,  a  standard  of  formal  excellence  in  bibliography 
higher  and  more  exacting  than  any  now  existing  in  Europe. 


X  Preface 

To  my  friends^  then,  in  America,  known  and  unknotvn, 
who  love  rare  and  beautiful  books,  I  present  this  little 
volume  as  a  mere  suggestion  of  the  endless  entertainment 
which  these  indulgent  companions  of  our  solitude  can  supply, 
if  we  only  appeal  to  them  for  it.  I  have  dipped  a  child's 
bucket  in  the  ocean  of  bibliography,  and  am  eager  that 
others  should  enjoy  the  sight  of  what  finned  and  starry  things  it 
has  brought  up.  But  I  am  not  suffering  under  the  illusion 
that  these  are  exceptionally  rich  or  rare.  Let  my  readers  dip 
for  themselveSf  and  they  shall  have  nobler  sport. 

London,  November  tSgi. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

Introductory         . 

I 

Camden' i ''"Britannia'' 

.         II 

A  Mirror  for  Magistrates     , 

.        25 

A  Toet  in  Prison 

.     39 

Death's  Duel       . 

.     53 

Gerard's  Herbal .         , 

.     65 

Pharamond . 

•     79 

A  Volume  of  Old  Plays 

•     93 

A  Censor  of  Poets 

.  107 

Laay  Winchilsea's  Poems 

B 

.  119 

Amasia 

»                             < 

.  133 

Love  and  Business 

■ 

.  145 

What  Ann  Lang  Read . 

■ 

.  159 

Cats  .... 

» 

.  171 

Smart's  Poems 

• 

.  183 

Xll 


Contents 


PAGE 

Pompey  the  Little         ..... 

.      20I 

The  Life  of  Jo/n  Buncle    .          .          . 

•    21S 

Beau   Nash          ...... 

.    227 

The  Diary  of  a  Lover  of  Literature     . 

•    239 

Peter  Belt  and  Ins   Tor?r:(ntcrs 

25T 

The  Fancy  ....... 

269 

Ultra-crepidarius           ..... 

283 

The  Duke  of  Rutland's   Poems      .          .          .          . 

293 

lonica 

305 

The  Shaving  of  Shr.gpat      .          .          .         .          . 

319 

Index .....         0         .         . 

331 

GOSSIP   IN   A   LIBRARY 
Introductory 

It  is  curious  to  reflect  that  the  library,  in  our 
customary  sense,  is  quite  a  modern  institution. 
Three  hundred  years  ago  there  were  no  pubhc 
libraries  in  Europe.  The  Ambrosian,  at  Milan, 
dates  from  1608  ;  the  Bodleian,  at  Oxford,  from 
16 1 2.  To  these  Angelo  Rocca  added  his  in 
Rome,  in  1620.  But  private  collections  of  books 
always  existed,  and  these  were  the  haunts  of 
learning,  the  little  glimmering  hearths  over  which 
knowledge  spread  her  cold  fingers,  in  the  darkest 
ages  of  the  world.  To-day,  although  national 
and  private  munificence  has  increased  the  number 
of  public  libraries  so  widely  that  almost  every 
reader    is    within    reach    of    books,    the    private 

A 


Gossip  in  a  Library 


library  still  flourishes.  There  are  men  all 
through  the  civilised  world  to  whom  a  book  is  a 
jewel — an  individual  possession  of  great  price. 
I  have  been  asked  to  gossip  about  my  books,  for 
I  also  am  a  bibliophile.  But  when  I  think  of 
the  great  collections  of  fine  books,  of  the  libraries 
of  the  magnificent,  I  do  not  know  whether  I  dare 
admit  any  stranger  to  glance  at  mine.  The  Mayor 
of  Queenborough  feels  as  though  he  were  a  very 
important  personage  till  Royalty  drives  through 
his  borough  without  noticing  his  scarf  and  his 
cocked  hat ;  and  then,  for  the  first  time,  he 
observes  how  small  the  Queenborough  town- 
hall  is.  But  if  one  is  to  gossip  about  books,  it 
is,  perhaps,  as  well  that  one  should  have  some 
limits.  I  will  leave  the  masters  of  bibliography 
to  sing  of  greater  matters,  and  will  launch 
upon  no  more  daring  voyage  than  one  autour  de 
ma  pauvre  bibliotheque. 

I  have  heard  that  the  late  Mr.  Edward  Solly, 
a  very  pious  and  worshipful  lover  of  books, 
under  several  examples  of  whose  book-plate  I 
have  lately  reverently  placed  my  own,  was  so 
anxious  to  fly  all  outward    noise  that  he  built 


Introductory 


himself  a  library  in  his  garden.  I  have  been 
told  that  the  books  stood  there  in  perfect  order, 
with  the  rose-spray  flapping  at  the  window,  and 
great  Japanese  vases  exhaling  such  odours  as 
most  annoy  an  insect-nostril.  The  very  bees 
would  come  to  the  window,  and  sniff,  and  boom 
indignantly  away  again.  The  silence  there  was 
perfect.  It  must  have  been  in  such  a  secluded 
library  that  Christian  Mentzelius  was  at  work 
when  he  heard  the  male  book-worm  flap  his 
wings,  and  crow  like  a  cock  in  calling  to  his 
mate.  I  feel  sure  that  even  Mentzelius,  a  very 
courageous  writer,  would  hardly  pretend  that  he 
could  hear  such  a  "  shadow  of  all  sound  "  else- 
where. That  is  the  library  I  should  like  to  have. 
In  my  sleep,  "  where  dreams  are  multitude,"  I 
sometimes  fancy  that  one  day  I  shall  have  a 
library  in  a  garden.  The  phrase  seems  to  con- 
tain the  whole  felicity  of  man — "  a  library  in  a 
garden ! "  It  sounds  like  having  a  castle  in 
Spain,  or  a  sheep-walk  in  Arcadia,  and  I  suppose 
that  merely  to  wish  for  it  is  to  be  what  indignant 
journalists  call  "  a  faddling  hedonist."  In  the 
meanwhile,  my  books  are  scattered  about  in  cases 


Gossip  in  a  Library 


in  different  parts  of  a  double  sitting-room,  where 
the  cats  carouse  on  one  side,  and  the  hurdy- 
gurdy  man  girds  up  his  loins  on  the  other.  A 
friend  of  Boethius  had  a  library  lined  with  slabs 
of  ivory  and  pale  green  marble.  I  like  to  think 
of  that  when  I  am  jealous  of  P>Ir.  Frederick 
Locker-Lampson,  as  the  peasant  thinks  of  the 
White  Czar  when  his  master's  banqueting  hall 
dazzles  him.  If  I  cannot  have  cabinets  of  ebony 
and  cedar,  I  may  just  as  well  have  plain  deal, 
with  common  glass  doors  to  keep  the  dust  out. 
I  detest  your  Persian  apparatus. 

It  is  a  curious  reflection,  that  the  ordinary 
private  person  who  collects  objects  of  a  modest 
luxury,  has  nothing  about  him  so  old  as  his 
books.  If  a  wave  of  the  rod  made  everything 
around  him  disappear  that  did  not  exist  a  century 
ago,  he  would  suddenly  find  himself  with  one  or 
two  sticks  of  furniture,  perhaps  but  otherwise 
alone  with  his  books.  Let  the  work  of  another 
century  pass,  and  certainly  nothing  but  these 
little  brown  volumes  would  be  left,  so  many 
caskets  full  of  passion  and  tenderness,  dis- 
appointed  ambition,  fruitless  hope,  self-torturing 


Introductory 


envy,  conceit  aware,  in  maddening  lucid  moments, 
of  its  own  folly.  I  think  if  Mentzelius  had  been 
worth  his  salt,  those  ears  of  his,  which  heard  the 
book-worm  crow,  might  have  caught  the  echo  of 
a  sigh  from  beneath  many  a  pathetic  vellum  cover. 
There  is  something  awful  to  me,  of  nights,  and 
when  I  am  alone,  in  thinking  of  all  the  souls  im- 
prisoned in  the  ancient  books  around  me.  Not 
one,  I  suppose,  but  was  ushered  into  the  world 
with  pride  and  glee,  with  a  flushed  cheek  and 
heightened  pulse  ;  not  one  enjoyed  a  career  that 
in  all  points  justified  those  ample  hopes  and  flat- 
tering promises. 

The  outward  and  visible  mark  of  the  citizen- 
ship of  the  book-lover  is  his  book-plate.  There 
are  many  good  bibliophiles  who  abide  in  the 
trenches,  and  never  proclaim  their  loyalty  by  a 
book-plate.  They  are  with  us,  but  not  of  us  ; 
they  lack  the  courage  of  their  opinions  ;  they 
collect  with  timidity  or  carelessness  ;  they  have 
no  heed  for  the  morrow.  Such  a  man  is  liable 
to  great  temptations.  He  is  brought  face  to  face 
with  that  enemy  of  his  species,  the  borrower,  and 
dares  not  speak  with  him  in  the  gate.      If  he  had 


Gossip  in  a  Library 


a  book-plate  he  would  say,  "  Oh  !  certainly  I  will 
lend  you  this  volume,  if  it  has  not  my  book- 
plate in  it  ;  of  course,  one  makes  a  rule  never  to 
lend  a  book  that  has."  He  would  say  this,  and 
feign  to  look  inside  the  volume,  knowing  right 
well  that  this  safeguard  against  the  borrower  is 
there  already.  To  have  a  book-plate  gives  a 
collector  great  serenity  and  self-confidence.  We 
have  laboured  in  a  far  more  conscientious  spirit 
since  we  had  ours  than  we  did  before.  A  living 
poet,  Lord  De  Tabley,  wrote  a  fascinating 
volume  on  book-plates,  some  years  ago,  with 
copious  illustrations.  There  is  not,  however, 
one  specimen  in  his  book  which  I  would 
exchange  for  mine,  the  work  and  the  gift  of 
one  of  the  most  imaginative  of  American 
artists,  Mr,  Edwin  A.  Abbey.  It  represents  a 
very  fine  gentleman  of  about  i6iO,  walking  in 
broad  sunlight  in  a  garden,  reading  a  little  book 
of  verses.  The  name  is  coiled  around  him,  with 
the  motto,  Gravis  cantantibus  umbra.  I  will 
not  presume  to  translate  this  tag  of  an  eclogue, 
and  I  only  venture  to  mention  such  a  very  un- 
interesting   matter,   that    my    indulgent    readers 


Introductory 


may  have  a  more  vivid  notion  of  what  I  call  my 
library.  Mr.  Abbey's  fine  art  is  there,  always 
before  me,  to  keep  my  ideal  high. 

To  possess  few  books,  and  those  not  too  rich 
and  rare  for  daily  use,  has  this  advantage,  that 
the  possessor  can  make  himself  master  of  them 
all,  can  recollect  their  peculiarities,  and  often 
remind  himself  of  their  contents.  The  man  that 
has  two  or  three  thousand  books  can  be  famihar 
with  them  all ;  he  that  has  thirty  thousand  can 
hardly  have  a  speaking  acquaintance  with  more 
than  a  few.  The  more  conscientious  he  is,  the 
more  he  becomes  hke  Lucian's  amateur,  who 
was  so  much  occupied  in  rubbing  the  bindings  ot 
his  books  with  sandal-wood  and  saffron,  that  he 
had  no  time  left  to  study  the  contents.  After 
all,  with  every  due  respect  paid  to  "  states  "  and 
editions  and  bindings  and  tall  copies,  the  inside 
of  the  volume  is  really  the  essential  part  of  it. 

The  excuses  for  collecting,  however,  are  more 
than  satire  is  ready  to  admit.  The  first  edition 
represents  the  author's  first  thought  ;  in  it  we 
read  his  words  as  he  sent  them  out  to  the  world 
in  his  first  heat,  with  the  type  he  chose,  and  with 


8  Gossip  in  a  Library 

such  peculiarities  of  form  as  he  selected  to  do 
most  justice  to  his  creation.  We  often  discover 
little  individual  points  in  a  first  edition,  which 
never  occur  again.  And  if  it  be  conceded  that 
there  is  an  advantage  in  reading  a  book  in  the 
form  which  the  author  originally  designed  for  it, 
then  all  the  other  refinements  of  the  collector 
become  so  many  acts  of  respect  paid  to  this  first 
virgin  apparition,  touching  and  suitable  homage 
of  cleanness  and  fit  adornment.  It  is  only  when 
this  homage  becomes  mere  eye-service,  when  a 
book  radically  unworthy  of  such  dignity  is  too 
delicately  cultivated,  too  richly  bound,  that  a 
poor  dilettantism  comes  in  between  the  reader 
and  what  he  reads.  Indeed,  the  best  of  volumes 
may,  in  my  estimation,  be  destroyed  as  a  pos- 
session by  a  binding  so  sumptuous  that  no  fingers 
dare  to  open  it  for  perusal.  To  the  fcuda,] 
splendours  of  Mr.  Cobden-Sanderson,  a  ten- 
penny  book  in  a  ten-pound  binding,  I  say  fis. 
Perhaps  the  ideal  library,  after  all,  is  a  small 
one,  where  the  books  are  carefully  selected 
and  thoughtfully  arranged  in  accordance  with 
one  central  code  of  taste,  and    intended    to    be 


Introductory 


respectfully  consulted  at  any  moment  by  the 
master  of  their  destinies.  If  fortune  made  me 
possessor  of  one  book  of  excessive  value,  I 
should  hasten  to  part  with  it.  In  a  little 
working  library,  to  hold  a  first  quarto  of 
Hamlet,  would  be  like  entertaining  a  reigning 
monarch  in  a  small  farmhouse  at  harvesting. 

Much  has  of  late  been  written,  however,  and 
pleasantly  written,  about  the  collecting  and  pre- 
serving of  books.  It  is  not  my  intention  here 
to  add  to  this  department  of  modern  litera- 
ture. But  I  shall  select  from  among  my 
volumes  some  which  seem  less  known  in  de- 
tail to  modern  readers  than  they  should  be, 
and  I  shall  give  brief  "  retrospective  reviews  " 
of  these  as  though  they  were  new  discoveries. 
In  other  cases,  where  the  personal  history  of  a 
well-known  book  seems  worth  detaching  from 
our  critical  estimate  of  it,  that  shall  be  the 
subject  of  my  lucubration.  Perhaps  it  may 
not  be  an  unwelcome  novelty  to  apply  to  old 
books  the  test  we  so  familiarly  apply  to  new 
ones.  They  will  bear  it  well,  for  in  their 
case  there  is    no  temptation  to    introduce   any 


lo  Gossip  in  a  Library 

element  of  prejudice.  Mr.  Bludyer  himself  does 
not  fl}'  into  a  passion  over  a  squat  volume 
published  two  centuries  ago,  even  when,  as  in 
the  case  of  the  first  edition  of  Harrington's 
Oceana,  there  is  such  a  monstrous  list  of  errata 
that  the  writer  has  to  tell  us,  by  way  of  excuse, 
that  a  spaniel  has  been  "  questing  "  among  his 
papers. 

These  scarce  and  neglected  books  are  full 
of  interesting  things.  Voltaire  never  made  a 
more  unfortunate  observation  than  when  he  said 
that  rare  books  were  worth  nothing,  since,  if  they 
were  worth  anything,  they  would  not  be  rare. 
We  know  better  nowadays  ;  we  know  how  much 
there  is  in  them  which  may  appeal  to  only  one 
man  here  and  there,  and  yet  to  him  with  a  voice 
like  a  clarion.  There  are  books  that  have  lain 
silent  for  a  century,  and  then  have  spoken  with 
the  trumpet  of  a  prophecy.  We  shall  disdain 
nothing  ;  we  shall  have  a  little  criticism,  a  little 
anecdote,  a  httle  bibliography  ;  and  our  old  book 
shall  go  back  to  the  shelves  before  it  has  had 
time  to  be  tedious  in  its  babbling. 


CAMDEN'S    "BRITANNIA" 


Camden's  ^'  Britannia  " 

Britain  :  or  a  chorographkall  description  of  the  most  flourishing  I^gdcmes, 
England,  Scotland  and  Ireland,  and  the  Hands  adicyning,  cut  of  the 
depth  of  tArtiquitie :  heaut'ifed  ivith  c^Iappes  of  the  se-verall  Shires  of 
England  :  Written  first  in  Latlne  by  ?f^dHam  Camden,  Clarenceux 
I^.  of  tA.  Translated  revily  into  English  by  Phile'mon  Holland, 
Lcndini,  Iwpensis  Cfecrgii  'Bishop  &  Jcannis  Chorion,  c^I.DC.X. 

1  HERE  is  no  more  remarkable  example  of  the 
difference  between  the  readers  of  our  light  and 
hurrying  age  and  those  who  obeyed  "  Eliza  and 
our  James,"  than  the  fact  that  the  book  we  have 
before  us  at  this  moment,  a  folio  of  some  eleven 
hundred  pages,  adorned,  hke  a  fighting  elephant, 
with  all  the  weightiest  panoply  of  learning,  was 
one  of  the  most  popular  works  of  its  time.  It 
went  through  six  editions,  this  vast  antiquarian 
itinerary,  before  the  natural  demand  of  the  vulgar 
released  it  from  its  Latin  austerity ;  and  the 
title-page  we  have  quoted   is  that  of  the  earliest 


14  Gossip  in  a  Library 

English  edition,  specially  translated,  under  the 
author's  eye,  by  Dr.  Philemon  Holland,  a  laborious 
physician  of  Coventry.  Once  open  to  the  general 
public,  although  then  at  the  close  of  its  first 
quarter  of  a  century,  the  Britannia  flourished 
with  a  new  lease  of  life,  and  continued  to  bloom, 
like  a  literary  magnolia,  all  down  the  seventeenth 
century.  It  is  now  as  little  read  as  other  famous 
books  of  uncompromising  size.  The  bookshelves 
of  to-day  are  not  fitted  for  the  reception  of  these 
heroic  folios,  and  if  we  want  British  antiquities 
now,  we  find  them  in  terser  form  and  more 
accurately,  or  at  least  more  plausibly,  annotated 
in  the  writings  of  later  antiquaries.  Giant 
Camden  moulders  at  his  cave's  mouth,  a  huge 
and  reverend  form  seldom  disturbed  by  puny 
passers-by.  But  his  once  popular  folio  was  the 
life  work  of  a  particularly  interesting  and  human 
person  ;  and  without  affecting  to  penetrate  to  the 
darkest  corners  of  the  cavern,  it  may  be  instruc- 
tive to  stand  a  little  while  on  the  threshold. 

When  this  first  English  edition  of  the  Britannia 
was  published,  Camden  was  one  of  the  most 
famous  of  living  English  writers.      For  one  man 


Camden's  "Britannia"  15 

of  position  who  had  heard  of  Shakespeare,  there 
would  be  twenty,  at  least,  who  were  quite  familiar 
with  the  claims  of  the  Head-master  of  West- 
minster and  Clarenceux  King  of  Arms.  Camden 
was  in  his  sixtieth  year,  in  1610  ;  he  had 
enjoyed  slow  success,  violent  detraction,  and 
final  triumph.  His  health  was  poor,  but  he  con- 
tinued to  write  history,  eager,  as  he  says,  to  show 
that  "  though  I  have  been  a  studious  admirer  of 
venerable  antiquity,  yet  have  I  not  been  altogether 
an  incurious  spectator  of  modern  occurrences." 
He  stood  easily  first  among  the  historians  of  his 
time ;  he  was  respected  and  adored  by  the 
Court  and  by  the  Universities,  and  that  his  fame 
might  be  completed  by  the  chrism  of  detraction, 
his  popularity  was  assured  from  year  to  year  by 
the  dropping  fire  of  obloquy  which  the  Papists 
scattered  from  their  secret  presses.  It  had  not 
been  without  a  struggle  that  Camden  had  attained 
this  pinnacle  ;  and  the  Britannia  had  been  his 
alpenstock. 

This  first  English  edition  has  the  special 
interest  of  representing  Camden's  last  thoughts. 
It  is  nominally  a  translation  of  the  sixth  Latin 


1 6  Gossip  in  a  Library 

edition,  but  it  has  a  good  deal  of  additional 
matter  supplied  to  Philemon  Holland  by  the 
author,  whereas  later  English  issues  containing 
fresh  material  are  believed  to  be  so  far  spurious. 
The  Britamiia  grew  with  the  life  of  Camden. 
He  tells  us  that  it  was  when  he  was  a  young 
man  of  six-and-twenty,  lately  started  on  his 
professional  career  as  second  master  in  West- 
minster School,  that  the  famous  Dutch  geographer, 
Abraham  Ortelius,  "  dealt  earnestly  with  me  that 
I  would  illustrate  this  isle  of  Britain."  This 
was  no  light  task  to  undertake  in  1577.  The 
authorities  were  few,  and  these  in  the  highest 
degree  occasional  or  fragmentary.  It  was  not  a 
question  of  compiling  a  collection  of  topographical 
antiquities.  The  whole  process  had  to  be  gone 
through    "  from  the  ^%g.^^ 

ks,  a  youth  at  Oxford,  Camden  had  turned 
all  his  best  attention  to  this  branch  of  study, 
and  what  the  ancients  had  written  about  Eng- 
land was  intimately  known  to  him.  Any  one 
who  looks  at  his  book  will  see  that  the  first 
180  pages  of  the  Britannia  could  be  written 
by  a    scholar    without  stirring    from    his    chair 


Camden's  "Britannia"  17 


at  Westminster.  But  when  it  came  to  the 
minute  description  of  the  counties  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  personal  travel ;  and  accord- 
ingly Camden  spent  what  holidays  he  could 
snatch  from  his  labours  as  a  schoolmaster  in 
making  a  deliberate  survey  of  the  divisions  of 
England.  We  possess  some  particulars  of  one 
of  these  journeys,  that  which  occupied  1 582,  in 
which  he  started  by  Suffolk,  through  Yorkshire, 
and  returned  through  Lancashire.  He  was  a 
very  rapid  worker,  he  spared  no  pains,  and  in 
1586,  nine  years  after  Ortelius  set  him  going,  his 
first  draft  was  issued  from  the  press.  In  later 
times,  and  when  his  accuracy  had  been  cruelly 
impeached,  he  set  forth  his  claims  to  attention 
with  dignity.  He  said  :  "  I  have  in  no  wise 
neglected  such  things  as  are  most  material  to 
search  and  sift  out  the  truth.  I  have  attained 
to  some  skill  of  the  most  ancient  British  and 
Anglo-Saxon  tongues  ;  I  have  travelled  over  all 
England  for  the  most  part,  I  have  conferred  with 

most  skilful  observers  in  each   county I 

have  been  diligent  in  the  records  of  this  realm. 
I  have  looked  into  most  libraries,  registers  and 

B 


1 8  Gossip  in  a  Library 

memorials  of  churches,  cities  and  corporations, 
I  have  pored  upon  many  an  old  roll  and  evidence 
....  that  the  honour  of  verity  might  in  no 
wise  be  impeached." 

It  was  no  slight  task  to  undertake  such  a 
work  on  such  a  scale.  And  when  the  first 
Latin  edition  appeared,  it  was  hailed  as  a  first 
glory  in  the  diadem  of  Elizabeth.  Specialists 
in  particular  counties  found  that  Camden  knew 
more  about  their  little  circle  than  they  them- 
selves had  taken  all  their  lives  to  learn.  Lom- 
bard, the  great  Kentish  antiquary,  said  that  he 
never  knew  Kent  properly  till  he  read  of  it  in 
the  Britannia.  But  Camden  was  not  content  to 
rest  on  his  laurels.  Still,  year  by  year,  he  made 
his  painful  journe3S  through  the  length  and 
breadth  of  the  land,  and  still,  as  new  editions 
were  called  for,  the  book  grew  from  octavo  into 
folio.  Suddenly,  about  twelve  years  after  its  first 
unchallenged  appearance,  there  was  issued,  like  a 
bolt  out  of  the  blue,  a  very  nasty  pamphlet,  called 
Discovery  of  certain  Errors  Published  in  the  much- 
commended  Britannia,  which  created  a  fine  storm 
in  the  antiquarian  teapot.      This  attack  was  the 


Camden's  *' Britannia"  19 

work  of  a  man  who  would  otherwise  be  forgotten, 
Ralph  Brooke,  the  York  Herald,  He  had 
formerly  been  an  admirer  of  Camden's,  his 
"  humble  friend,"  he  called  himself ;  but  when 
Camden  was  promoted  over  his  head  to  be 
Clarenceux  King  of  Arms,  it  seemed  to  Ralph 
Brooke  that  it  became  his  duty  to  denounce  the 
too  successful  antiquary  as  a  charlatan.  He 
accordingly  fired  off  the  unpleasant  little  gun 
already  mentioned,  and,  for  the  moment,  he  hit 
Camden  rather  hard. 

The  author  of  the  Britannia,  to  justify 
his  new  advancement,  had  introduced  into  a 
fresh  edition  of  his  book  a  good  deal  of  in- 
formation regarding  the  descent  of  barons  and 
other  noble  families.  This  was  York  Herald's 
own  subject,  and  he  was  able  to  convict 
Camden  of  a  startling  number  of  negligences, 
and  what  he  calls  "  many  gross  mistakings." 
The  worst  part  of  it  was  that  York  Herald 
had  privately  pointed  out  these  blunders  to 
Camden,  and  that  the  latter  had  said  it  was 
too  much  trouble  to  alter  them.  This,  at  least, 
is  what  the   enemy   states   in   his   attack     and   if 


20  Gossip  In  a  Library 

this  be  true,  it  can  hardly  be  doubted  that 
Camden  had  sailed  too  long  in  fair  weather,  or 
that  he  needed  a  squall  to  recall  him  to  the 
duties  of  the  helm.  He  answered  Brooke,  who 
replied  with  increased  contemptuous  tartness. 
It  is  admitted  that  Camden  was  indiscreet  in  his 
manner  of  reply,  and  that  some  genuine  holes 
had  been  picked  in  his  heraldry.  But  the 
Britannia  lay  high  out  of  the  reach  of  fatal 
pedantic  attack,  and  this  little  cloud  over  the 
reputation  of  the  book  passed  entirely  away,  and 
is  remembered  now  only  as  a  curiosity  of 
literature. 

In  the  preface  the  author  quaintly  admits  that 
"  many  have  found  a  defect  in  this  work  that 
maps  were  not  adjoined,  which  do  allure  the 
eyes  by  pleasant  portraitures,  ....  yet  my 
ability  could  not  compass  it."  They  must,  then, 
have  been  added  at  the  last  by  a  generous  after- 
thought, for  this  book  is  full  of  maps.  The 
maritime  ones  are  adorned  with  ships  in  full 
sail,  and  bold  sea-monsters  with  curly  tails  ; 
the  inland  ones  are  speckled  with  trees  and  spires 
and  hillocks.      In   spite    of  these    old-fashioned 


Camden's  "Britannia"  21 

oddities,  the  maps  are  rcmarliably  accurate. 
They  are  signed  by  John  Norden  and  Wilham 
Kip,  the  master  map-makers  of  that  reign.  The 
book  opens  with  an  account  of  the  first  inhabitants 
of  Britain,  and  their  manners  and  customs  ;  how 
the  Romans  fared,  and  what  antiquities  they  left 
behind,  with  copious  plates  of  Roman  coins. 
By  degrees  we  come  down,  through  Saxons  and 
Normans,  to  thr.t  work  which  was  pecuHarly 
Camden's,  the  topographical  antiquarianism. 
He  begins  with  Cornwall,  "  that  region  which, 
according  to  the  geographers,  is  the  first  of  all 
Britain,"  and  then  proceeds  to  what  he  calls 
"  Denshire  "  and  we  Devonshire,  a  county,  as  he 
remarks,  "  barbarous  on  either  side." 

With  page  822  he  finds  himself  at  the  end  of 
his  last  English  county,  Northumberland,  looking 
across  the  Tweed  to  Berwick,  "  the  strongest  hold 
in  all  Britain,"  where  it  is  "  no  marvel  that  soldiers 
without  other  light  do  play  here  all  night  long  at 
dice,  considering  the  side  light  that  the  sun- 
beams cast  all  night  long."  This  rather  ex- 
aggerated statement  is  evidently  that  of  a  man 
accustomed  to  look  upon  Berwick  as  the  northern- 


22  Gossip  in  a  Library 

most  point  of  his  country,  as  we  shall  all  do,  no 
doubt,  when  Scotland  has  secured  Home  Rule. 
We  are,  therefore,  not  surprised  to  find  Scotland 
added,  in  a  kind  of  hurried  appendix,  in  special 
honour  to  James  I.  or  VI.  The  introduction  to 
the  Scottish  section  is  in  a  queer  tone  of  banter  ; 
Camden  knows  little  and  cares  less  about  the 
"  commonwealth  of  the  Scots,"  and  *  withall  will 
lightly  pass  over  it."  In  point  of  fact,  he  gets 
to  Duncansby  Head  in  fifty-two  pages,  and  not 
without  some  considerable  slips  of  information. 
Ireland  interests  him  more,  and  he  finally  closes 
with  a  sheet  of  learned  gossip  about  the  out- 
lying islands. 

The  scope  of  Camden's  work  did  not  give 
Philemon  Holland  much  opportunity  for  spread- 
ing the  wings  of  his  style.  Anxious  to  present 
Camden  fairly,  the  translator  is  curiously  uneven 
in  manner,  now  stately,  now  slipshod,  weaving 
melodious  sentences,  but  forgetting  to  tie  them 
up  with  a  verb.  He  is  commonly  too  busy 
with  hard  facts  to  be  a  Euphuist.  But  here 
is  a  pretty  and  ingenious  passage  about  Cam- 
bridge,  unusually   popular  in   manner,    and   ex- 


Camden's  "Britannia"  23 


ceedingly  handsome  in  the  mouth  of  an  Oxford 
man  : 

"On  this  side  the  bridge,  where  standeth  the 
greater  part   by    far   of  the    City,    you    have    a 
pleasant   sight  everywhere  to  the   eye,   what  of 
fair  streets  orderly  ranged,   what  of  a  number 
of    churches,    and    of    sixteen    colleges,    sacred 
mansions   of  the    Muses,   wherein  a  number  of 
great  learned  men  are  maintained,  and  wherein 
the  knowledge  of  the  best  arts,  and  the  skill  in 
tongues,   so  flourish,   that  they  may  rightly   be 
counted  the  fountains   of  literature,   religion  and 
all  knowledge    whatsoever,    who    right    sweetly 
bedew  and  sprinkle,  with  most  wholesome  waters, 
the  gardens   of  the  Church  and  Commonwealth 
through   England,      Nor    is   there  vranting  any- 
thing here,  that   a  man   may   require  in  a  most 
flourishing  University,  were  it  not  that  the  air  is 
somewhat  unhealthful,  arising  as  it  doth  out  of  a 
fenny  ground  hard  by.      And  yet,  peradventure, 
they  that  first  founded  a  University  in  that  place, 
allowed  of  Plato's  judgment.      For  he,  being  of 
a  very  excellent  and  strong  constitution  of  body, 
chose  out  the  Academia,  an  unwholesome  place 


24  Gossip  In  a  Library 

of  Attica,  for  to  study  in,  and  so  the  superfluous 
rankness  of  body  which  might  overlay  the  mind, 
might  be  kept  under  by  the  distemperature  of 
the  place." 

The  poor  scholars  in  the  mouldering  garrets  of 
Clare,  looking  over  waste  land  to  the  oozy  Cam, 
no  doubt  wished  that  their  foundress  had  been 
less  Spartan.  Very  little  of  the  domestic  archi- 
tecture that  Camden  admired  in  Cambridge  is 
now  left  ;  and  yet  probably  it  and  Oxford  are 
the  two  places  of  all  which  he  describes  that  it 
would  give  him  least  trouble  to  identify  if  he 
came  to  life  again  three  hundred  years  after  the 
first  appearance  of  his  famous  Britannia, 


A    MIRROR    FOR    MAGISTRATES 


A  Mirror  for  Magistrates 

A  MiROVR  FOR  Magistrates  :  being  a  true  Cltronicle  Hhtorie  of  the 
iintlmely  falles  of  such  'vnfortunate  Trinces  and  men  of  note,  as  haue 
happened  since  the  frst  entrance  of  Brute  into  this  Hand,  •vntill  this 
our  latter  -^ge.  Ne^vly  enlarged  ivith  a  last  part,  called  A  Winter 
Nights  Vision,  being  an  addition  of  such  Tragedies,  especially 
famous,  as  are  exempted  in  the  former  Historie,  ivith  a  Toem  annexed, 
called  England's  Eliza.  yit  London.  Imprinted  by  Felix 
Kyngston,  1610. 

i  HIS  huge  quarto  of  875  pages,  all  in  verse,  is 
the  final  form,  though  far  from  the  latest  impres- 
sion, of  a  poetical  miscellany  which  had  been 
swelling  and  spreading  for  nearly  sixty  years 
without  ever  losing  its  original  character.  We 
may  obtain  some  imperfect  notion  of  the  Mirror 
for  Magistrates  if  we  imagine  a  composite  poem 
planned  by  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  contributed  to 
by  Wordsworth  and  Southey,  being  still  issued, 
generation  after  generation,  with  additions  by  tlic 


28  Gossin  in  a  Libr 


ary 


youngest  versifiers  of  to-day.  The  Mirror  for 
Magistrates  was  conceived  when  Mary's  proto- 
martyrs  were  burning  at  Smithfield,  and  it  was 
not  finished  until  James  I.  had  been  on  the 
throne  seven  years.  From  first  to  last,  at  least 
sixteen  writers  had  a  finger  in  this  pie,  and  the 
youngest  of  them  was  not  born  when  the  eldest 
of  them  died. 

It  is  commonly  said,  even  by  such  exact  critics 
as  the  late  Dean  Church,  that  the  Mirror  for 
Magistrates  was  planned  by  the  most  famous  of 
the  poets  who  took  part  in  its  execution,  Thomas 
Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst.  If  a  very  clever 
man  is  combined  in  any  enterprise  with  people 
of  less  prominence,  it  is  ten  to  one  that  he  gets 
all  the  credit  of  the  adventure.  But  the  evi- 
dence on  this  point  goes  to  prove  that  it  was  not 
until  the  work  was  well  advanced  that  Sackville 
contributed  to  it  at  all.  The  inventor  of  the 
Mirror  for  Magistrates  seems,  rather,  to  have 
been  George  Ferrers,  a  prominent  lawyer  and  poli- 
tician, who  was  master  of  the  King's  Revels  at 
the  very  close  of  Henry  VlII.'s  reign.  Ferrers 
was  ambitious  to  create  a  drama  in  England,  and 


A  Mirror  for  Magistrates         29 

lacked  only  genius  to  be  the  British  ^schylus. 
The  time  was  not  ripe,  but  he  was  evidently  very 
anxious  to  set  the  world  tripping  to  his  goatherd's 
pipe.  He  advertised  for  help  in  these  designs, 
and  the  list  of  persons  he  wanted  is  an  amusing 
one ;  he  was  willing  to  engage  "  a  divine,  a 
philosopher,  an  astronomer,  a  poet,  a  physician, 
an  apothecary,  a  master  of  requests,  a  civilian,  a 
clown,  two  gentlemen  ushers,  besides  jugglers, 
tumblers,  fools,  friars,  and  such  others."  For- 
tune sent  him,  from  Oxford,  one  William  Baldwin, 
who  was  most  of  these  things,  especially  divine 
and  poet,  and  who  became  Ferrers'  confidential 
factotum.  The  master  and  assistant-master  of 
Revels  were  humming  merrily  on  at  their  masques 
and  triumphs,  when  the  King  expired.  Under 
Queen  Mary,  revels  might  not  flourish,  but  the 
friendship  between  Ferrers  and  Baldwin  did  not 
cease.  They  planned  a  more  doleful  but  more 
durable  form  of  entertainment,  and  the  Mirror 
for  Magistrates  was  started.  Those  who  claim 
for  Sackville  the  main  part  of  this  invention, 
forget  that  he  is  not  mentioned  as  a  contributor 
till  what  was  really  the  third  edition,   and  that, 


30  Gossip  in  a  Library 

when  the  fii  st  went  to  press,  he  was  only  eighteen 
years  of  age. 

Ferrers  well  comprehended  the  taste  of  his 
age  when  he  conceived  the  notion  of  a  series  of 
poems,  in  which  famous  kings  and  nobles  should 
describe  in  their  own  persons  the  frailty  and  in- 
stability of  worldly  prosperity,  even  in  those 
whom  Fortune  seems  most  highly  to  favour. 
One  of  the  most  popular  books  of  the  preceding 
century  had  been  Lydgate's  version  of  Boccaccio's 
poems  on  the  calamities  of  illustrious  men,  a  vast 
monody  in  nine  books,  all  harping  on  that  single 
chord  of  the  universal  mutability  of  fortune. 
Lydgate's /a// 0/ Pr/;/c^s  had,  by  the  time  that 
Mary  ascended  the  throne,  existed  in  popular 
esteem  for  a  hundred  years.  Its  language  and 
versification  were  now  so  antiquated  as  to  be 
obsolete  ;  it  was  time  that  princes  should  fall  to 
a  more  modern  measure. 

The  first  edition  of  Baldwin  and  Ferrers' 
book  went  to  press  early  in  1555,  but  of 
this  edition  only  one  or  two  fragments  exist. 
It  was  "hindered  by  the  Lord  Chancellor 
that    then    was,"    Stephen    Gardiner,    and    was 


A  Mirror  for  Magistrates  31 

entirely  suppressed.  The  leaf  in  the  British 
Museum  is  closely  printed  in  double  columns, 
and  suggests  that  Baldwin  and  Ferrers  meant 
to  make  a  huge  volume  of  it.  The  death  of 
Mary  removed  the  embargo,  and  before  Eliza- 
beth had  been  Queen  for  many  months,  the 
second  (or  genuine  first)  edition  of  the  Myrroure 
for  Magistrates  made  its  appearance,  a  thin 
quarto,  charmingly  pnnted  in  two  kinds  of  type. 
This  contained  twenty  lives — Haslewood,  the 
only  critic  who  has  described  this  edition,  says 
nineteen,  but  he  overlooked  Ferrers'  tale  of 
"  Humphrey,  Duke  of  Gloucester " — and  was 
the  work,  so  Baldwin  tells  us,  of  seven  persons 
besides  himself. 

The  first  story  in  the  book,  a  story  which 
finally  appears  at  p.  276  of  the  edition  before  us, 
recounts  the  "  Fall  of  Robert  Tresilian,  Chief 
Justice  of  England,  and  other  of  his  fellows,  for 
misconstruing  the  laws  and  expounding  them  to 
serve  the  Prince's  affections.  Anno  1388."  The 
manner  in  which  this  story  is  presented  is  a  good 
example  of  the  mode  adopted  throughout  the 
miscellany.      The  corrupt  judge  and  his  fellow- 


32  Gossip  in  a  Library 


lawyers  appear,  as  in  a  mirror,  or  like  personages 
behind  the  illuminated  sheet  at  the  "  Chat  Noir," 
and  lamentably  recount  their  woes  in  chorus.  The 
story  of  Tresilian  was  written  by  Ferrers,  but  the 
persons  who  speak   it   address    his    companion : 

Baldwin,  we  beseech  thee  with  our  names  to  begin 

— which  support  Baldwin's  claim  to  be  looked 
upon  as  the  editor  of  the  whole  book.  It  is 
very  dreary  doggerel,  it  must  be  confessed, 
but  no  worse  than  most  of  the  poetry  indited  in 
England  at  that  uninspired  moment  in  the  national 
history.  A  short  example — a  flower  culled  from 
any  of  these  promiscuous  thickets — -will  suffice 
to  give  a  general  notion  of  the  garden.  Here  is 
part  of  the  lament  of  "  The  Lord  Clifford  "  : — 


'Because  my  father  Lord  Jolm  Clifford  die d^ 
Slain  at  St.  Albans,  in  his  prince's  aid, 

Against  the  Duke  my  heart  for  malice  fired, 
So  that  I  could  from  wreck  no  way  be  stayed. 
But,  to  avenge  my  father's  death,  assayed 

All  means  I  might  the  Duke  of  Tor^  to  annoy, 

Jnd  all  his  kin  and  friends  for  to  destroy. 


A  Mirror  for  Magistrates         33 

This  made  me  with  my  bloody  dagger  wound 
His  guiltless  son,  that  never  'gainst  me  stored ; 

His  father's  body  lying  dead  on  ground 

To  pierce  with  spear,  eke  with  my  cruel  sword 
To  part  his  neck,  and  with  his  head  to  board. 

Invested  with  a  royal  paper  crozvn, 

From  place  to  place  to  bear  it  up  and  dozvn. 

But  cruelty  can  never  ''scape  the  scourge 
Of  shame,  of  horror,  or  of  sudden  death  ; 

Repentance  self  that  other  sins  may  purge 

Doth  fly  from  this,  so  sore  the  soul  it  slayeth  ; 
'Despair  dissolves  the  tyrant's  bitter  breathy 

For  sudden  vengeance  suddenly  alights 

On  cruel  deeds  to  quit  their  bloody  spites. 

The  only  contribution  to  this  eariiest  form 
of  the  Mirror  which  is  attributed  to  an  eminent 
writer,  is  the  **  Edward  IV."  of  Skelton,  and 
this  is  one  of  the  most  tuneless  of  all.  It 
reminds  the  ear  of  a  whining  ballad  snuffled  out 
in  the  street  at  night  by  some  unhappy  minstrel 
that  has  got  no  work  to  do.  As  Baldwin  pro- 
fesses to  quote  it  from  memory,  Skelton  being 
then  dead,  perhaps  its  versification  suffered  in 
his  hands. 

This  is  not  the  place  to  enter  minutely  into 

c 


34  Gossip  in  a  Library 


the  history  of  the  building  up  of  this  curious 
book.  The  next  edition,  that  of  1563,  was  en- 
riched by  Sackville's  splendid  "  Induction  "  and 
the  tale  of  "  Buckingham,"  both  of  which  are 
comparatively  known  so  well,  and  have  been  so 
often  reprinted  separately,  that  I  need  not  dwell 
upon  them  here.  They  occupy  pp.  255-271  and 
433-455  of  the  volume  before  us.  In  1574  a 
very  voluminous  contributor  to  the  constantly 
swelling  tide  of  verse  appears.  Thomas  Blener 
Hasset,  a  soldier  on  service  in  Guernsey  Castle, 
thought  that  the  magisterial  ladies  had  been 
neglected,  and  proceeded  in  1578  to  sing  the 
fall  of  princesses.  It  is  needless  to  continue  the 
roll  of  poets,  but  it  is  w^orth  while  to  point  out 
the  remarkable  fact  that  each  new  candidate  held 
up  the  mirror  to  the  magistrates  so  precisely  in 
the  manner  of  his  predecessors,  that  it  is  difficult 
to  distinguish  Newton  from  Baldwin,  or  Church- 
yard from  Niccols. 

Richard  Niccols,  who  is  responsible  for  the 
collection  in  its  final  state,  was  a  person  of  ad- 
venture, who  had  fought  against  Cadiz  in  the 
Ark,  and   understood  the  noble  practice  of  the 


A  Mirror  for  Magistrates         35 

science  of  artillery.      By  the  time  it  came  down 
to  him,  in  1610,  the  Mirror  for  Magistrates  had 
attained   such  a  size  that  he  was  obhged  to  omit 
what  had   formed  a  pleasing   portion  of  it,    the 
prose    dialogues  which    knit    the   tales    in    verse 
together,  such  pleasant  familiar  chatter   between 
the   poets  as  "  Ferrers,  said    Baldwin,  take  you 
the  chronicles  and    mark    them    as    they  come," 
and  the  like.      It  was  a  pity  to  lose   all  this,  but 
Niccols  had  additions  of  his  own  verse  to  make  ; 
ten    new    legends    entitled    "  A   Winter    Night's 
Vision,"  and  a  long  eulogy  upon  Queen  Elizabeth, 
"  England's  Eliza."      He  would   have  been   more 
than  human  if  he  had  not  considered  all  this  far 
more  valuable    than   the    old   prose    babbling  in 
black  letter.     This  copy  of  mine  is  of  the  greatest 
rarity,   for    it    contains    two   dedicatory   sonnets 
by    Richard    Niccols,    one    addressed    to     Lady 
Elizabeth   Clere    and    the    other   to    the    Earl  of 
Nottingham,  which  seem   to    have  been  instantly 
suppressed,  and  are  only  known  to  exist  in  this 
and,  I  believe,  one  or  two  other  examples  of  the 
book.      These  are,  perhaps,  worth  reprinting  for 
their  curiosity.     The  first  rurs  ?.s  follows  : —    • 


36  Gossip  in  a  Library 

5\ly  [Muse,  that  whilom  waiPd  those  Triton  kings. 

Who  unto  her  in  vision  did  appear. 

Craves  leave  to  strengthen  her  night-weathered  wings 
In  the  warm  sunshine  of  ^ our  golden  Clere  [clear^  ; 
Where  she,  fair  Lady,  tuning  her  chaste  lays 

Of  England's  Empress  to  her  hymnic  string 
For  your  affect,  to  hear  that  virgin's  praise, 

(Makes  choice  of  your  chaste  self  to  hear  her  sing. 
Whose  royal  worth,  {true  virtue's  paragon^ 

Here  made  me  dare  to  engrave  your  worthy  name. 
In  hope  that  unto  you  the  same  alone 

Will  so  excuse  me  of  presumptuous  blame. 
That  graceful  entertain  my  CMuse  may  find 
And  even  bear  such  grace  in  thankful  mind. 

The  sonnet  to  the  Earl  of  Nottingham,  the 
famous  admiral  and  quondam  rival  of  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh,  is  more  interesting  : — 

As  once  that  dove  {true  honour'' s  aged  Lord,) 

Hovering  with  wearied  zuings  about  your  ark. 
When  Cadiz  towers  did  fall  beneath  your  sword, 

To  rest  herself  did  single  out  that  bark. 
So  my  meek  [Muse, — from  all  that  conquering  rout, 

Conducted  through  the  seas  wild  wilderness 
'By  your  great  self  to  grave  their  names  about 

The  Iberian  pillars  of  Jove's  Hercules, — 
[Most  humbly  craves  your  lordly  lion's  aid 

'Gainst  tnonster  eifpy,  t^hile  she  tells  her  story 


A  Mirror  for  Magistrates  37 

Of  'Britain' s  princes,  and  that  royall  maid 
■  In  zvhose  chaste  hymn  her  CHo  sings  your  glory, 
Which  if,  great  Lord,  you  grant,  my  Muse  shall  frame 
(Mirrors  fnost  worthy  your  renozuned  name. 

But  apparently  the  "  great  Lord "  would  not 
grant  permission,  and  so  the  sonnet  had  to  be 
rigorously  suppressed. 

The  Mirror  for  Magistrates  has  ceased  to  be 
more  than  a  curiosity  and  a  collector's  rarity,  but 
it  once  assumed  a  very  ambitious  function.  It 
was  a  serious  attempt  to  build  up,  as  a  cathedral 
is  built  by  successive  architects,  a  great  national 
epic,  the  work  of  many  hands.  In  a  gloomy 
season  of  English  history,  in  a  violent  age  of 
tyranny,  fanaticism,  and  legalised  lawlessness,  it 
endeavoured  to  present,  to  all  whom  it  might 
concern,  a  solemn  succession  of  discrowned 
tyrants  and  law-makers  smitten  by  the  cruel  laws 
they  had  made.  Sometimes,  in  its  bold  and  not 
very  delicate  way,  the  Mirror  for  Magistrates  is 
impressive  still  from  its  lofty  moral  tone,  its 
gloomy  fatalism,  and  its  contempt  for  temporary 
renown.  As  we  read  its  sombre  pages  we  see 
the  wheel  of  fortune  revolving ;   the  same  motion 


38  Gossip  in  a  Library 

which  makes  the  tiara  glitter  one  moment  at  the 
summit,  pkinges  it  at  the  next  into  the  pit  of 
pain  and  obhvion.  Steadily,  uniformly,  the 
unflinching  poetasters  grind  out  in  their  monoto- 
nous rime  royal  how  "Thomas  Wolsey  fell  into 
great  disgrace,"  and  how  "  Sir  Anthony  Wood- 
ville,  Lord  Rivers,  was  causeless  imprisoned  and 
cruelly  wounded " ;  how  "  King  Kimarus  was 
devoured  by  wild  beasts,"  and  how  "Sigebert,  for 
his  wicked  life,  was  thrust  from  his  throne  and 
miserably  slain  by  a  herdsman."  It  gives  us  a 
strange  feeling  of  sympathy  to  realise  th?.t  the 
immense  popularity  of  this  book  must  have  been 
mainly  due  to  the  fact  that  it  comforted  the 
multitudes  who  groaned  under  a  harsh  and 
violent  despotism  to  be  told  over  and  over  again 
that  cruel  kings  and  unjust  judges  habitually 
came  at  last  to  a  bad  end. 


A   POET   IN    PRISON 


A  Poet  in  Prison 

The  Shepheards  Hunting  :  being  Certain  Eglogues  'written  during  the 
time  of  the  i-Aut/iors  Imprisonneiit  in  the  Mui shahey.  By  Qe.rge 
Wyther,  Qentleman.  London,  printed  by  W.  White  for  Qe.rge 
Norton,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  the  signe  of  the  red- Bull  neeie  Temple- 
barre.      1615. 

If  ever  a  man  needed  resuscitation  in  our 
antiquarian  times  it  was  George  Wither.  When 
most  of  the  Jacobean  poets  sank  into  comfortable 
oblivion,  which  merely  meant  being  laid  with  a 
piece  of  camphor  in  cotton-wool  to  keep  fresh 
for  us,  Wither  had  the  misfortune  to  be  recol- 
lected. He  became  a  byword  of  contempt,  and 
the  Age  of  Anne  persistently  called  him  Withers, 
a  name,  I  believe,  only  possessed  really  by  one 
distinguished  person,  Cleopatra  Skewton's  page- 
boy. Swift,  in  The  Battle  of  the  Books,  brings 
in  this  poet  as  the  meanest  common  trooper  that 
he  can   mention   in    his    modern    army.       Pope 


42  Gossip  in  a  Library 

speaks  of  him  with  the  utmost  freedom  as 
"  wretched  Withers."  It  is  true  that  he  lived 
too  long  and  wrote  too  much — a  great  deal  too 
much.  Mr.  HazUtt  gives  the  titles  of  more  than 
one  hundred  of  his  publications,  and  some  of 
them  are  wonderfully  unattractive.  I  should  not 
like  to  be  shut  up  on  a  rainy  day  with  his  Salt 
upon  Salt,  which  seems  to  have  lost  its  savour, 
nor  do  I  yearn  to  blow  upon  his  Tuba  Pacifica, 
although  it  was  "  disposed  of  rather  for  love  than 
money."  The  truth  is  that  good  George  Wither 
lost  his  poetry  early,  was  an  upright,  honest,  and 
patriotic  man  who  unhappily  developed  into  a 
scold,  and  got  into  the  bad  habit  of  pouring  out 
"  precautions,"  "  cautional  expressions,"  "  pro- 
phetic phrensies,"  "  epistles  at  random,"  "  per- 
sonal contributions  to  the  national  humiliation," 
**  passages,"  "  raptures,"  and  "  allarums,"  until  he 
really  became  the  greatest  bore  in  Christendom. 
It  was  Charles  Lamb  who  swept  away  this  whole 
tedious  structure  of  Wither's  later  writings  and 
showed  us  what  a  lovely  poet  he  was  in  his  youth. 
When  the  book  before  us  was  printed,  George 
Wither  was  aged   twenty-seven.     He  had  just 


A  Poet  In  Prison  43 

stepped  gingerly  out  of  the  Marshalsea  Prison, 
and  his  poems  reveal  an  amusing  mixture  of 
protest  against  having  been  put  there  at  all  and 
deprecation  of  being  put  there  again.  Let  no 
one  waste  the  tear  of  sensibility  over  that  shell 
of  the  Marshalsea  Prison,  which  still,  I  believe, 
exists.  The  family  of  the  Dorrits  languished 
in  quite  another  place  from  the  original  Marshalsea 
of  Wither's  time,  although  that  also  lay  across 
the  water  in  Southwark.  It  is  said  that  the 
prison  was  used  to  confine  persons  in  who  had 
spoken  lewdly  of  dignitaries  about  the  Court. 
Wither,  as  we  shall  see,  makes  a  great  parade 
of  telling  us  why  he  was  imprisoned  ;  but  his 
language  is  obscure.  Perhaps  he  was  afraid 
to  be  explicit.  In  161 3  he  had  published  a 
little  volume  of  satires,  called  Abuses  stript  and 
whipt.  This  had  been  ver}'  popular,  running 
into  six  or  seven  editions  within  a  short  time, 
and  some  one  in  office,  no  doubt,  had  fitted  on 
the  fool's  cap.  Five  years  later  the  poor  poet 
would  have  had  a  chance  of  being  shipped  straight 
off  to  Virginia,  as  a  "  debauched  person  " ;  as  it 
was,  the  Marshalsea  seems  to  have  been  tolerably 


44  Gossip  in  a  Library 

unpleasant.  We  gather,  however,  that  he  en- 
joyed some  alleviations.  He  could  say,  like 
Leigh  Hunt,  "  the  visits  of  my  friends  were  the 
bright  side  of  my  captivity  ;  I  read  verses  with- 
out end,  and  wrote  almost  as  many."  The 
poems  we  have  before  us  were  written  in  the 
Marshalsea.  The  book  itself  is  very  tiny  and 
prett}^  with  a  sort  of  leafy  trellis-work  at  the 
top  and  bottom  of  every  page,  almost  suggesting 
a  little  posy  of  wild-flowers  thrown  through  the 
iron  bars  of  the  poet's  cage,  and  pressed  between 
the  pages  of  his  manuscript.  Nor  is  there  any 
book  of  Wither's  which  breathes  more  deeply  of  the 
perfume  of  the  fields  than  this  which  was  written 
in  the  noisome  seclusion  of  the  Marshalsea. 

Although  the  title-page  assures  us  that  these 
"  eglogues "  were  written  during  the  author's 
imprisonment,  we  may  have  a  suspicion  that 
the  first  three  were  composed  just  after  his  re- 
lease. They  are  very  distinct  from  the  rest  in 
form  and  character.  To  understand  them  we 
must  remember  that  in  1614,  just  before  the 
imprisonment,  Wither  had  taken  a  share  with 
his  bosom  friend,  William  Browne,  of  the  Inner 


A  Poet  in  Prison  45 

Temple,  in  bringing  out  a  little  volume  of 
pastorals,  called  The  Shep/ia'd's  Pipe.  Browne, 
a  poet  who  deserves  well  of  all  Devonshire  men, 
was  two  years  younger  than  Wither,  and  had 
just  begun  to  come  before  the  public  as  the 
author  of  that  charming,  lazy,  Virgilian  poem  of 
BriianmWs  Pastorals.  There  was  something  of 
Keats  in  Browne,  an  artist  who  let  the  world 
pass  him  by  ;  something  of  Shelley  in  Wither, 
a  prophet  who  longed  to  set  his  seal  on  human 
progress.  In  the  Shepherd's  Pipe  Willy  (William 
Browne)  and  Roget  (Geo-t-r)  had  been  the 
interlocutors,  and  Christopher  Brooke,  another 
rhyming  friend,  had  written  an  eclogue  under 
the  mame  of  Cutty.  These  personages  reappear 
in  The  Shepherd's  Huntings  and  give  us  a  glimpse 
of  pleasant  personal  relations.  In  the  first 
"  eglogue,"  Willy  comes  to  the  Marshalsea  one 
afternoon  to  condole  with  Roget,  but  finds  him 
very  cheerful.  The  prisoner  poet  assures  his 
rdend  that 

This  barren  place  fields  somewhat  to  relievey 

For  I  have  found  sufficient  to  content  me, 

Jtnd  more  true  blijs  than  ever  freedom  lent  me  i 


46  Gossip  in  a  Library 

and  Willy  goes  away,  when  it  is  growing  dark, 
rejoiced  to  find  that  "  the  cage  doth  some  birds 
good."  Next  morning  he  returns  and  brings 
Cutty,  or  Cuddy,  with  him,  for  Cuddy  has  news 
to  tell  the  prisoner,  that  all  England  is  taking  an 
interes  in  him,  and  that  this  adversity  has  made 
him  much  more  popular  than  he  was  before. 
But  Willy  and  Cuddy  are  extremely  anxious  to 
know  what  it  was  that  caused  Roget's  imprison- 
ment, and  at  last  he  agrees  to  tell  them. 
Hitherto  the  poem  has  been  written  in  ottava 
rima,  a  form  which  is  sufficiently  uncommon  in 
our  early  seventeenth-century  poetry  to  demand 
special  notice  in  this  case.  In  a  prose  post- 
script to  this  book  Wither  tells  us  that  the  title. 
The  Shepherd's  Hunting,  which  he  seems  to  feel 
needs  explanation,  is  due  to  the  stationer,  or,  as 
we  should  say  now,  to  the  publisher.  But 
perhaps  this  was  an  after-thought,  for  in  the 
account  he  gives  to  Willy  and  Cuddy  he  certainly 
suggests  the  title  himself.  He  represents  him- 
self as  the  shepherd  given  up  to  the  delights  of 
hunting  the  human  passions  through  the  soul ; 
the  simile  seems  a  little  confused,  because    he 


A  Poet  in  Pri 


rison 


47 


represents  these  qualities  not  as  the  quarry,  but 
as  the  hounds,  and  so  the  story  of  Actaeon  is 
reversed  ;  instead  of  the  hounds  pursuing  their 
master,  the  master  hunts  his  dogs.  At  all 
events,  the  result  is  that  he  "  dips  his  staff  in 
blood,  and  onwards  leads  his  thunder  to  the 
wood,"  where  he  is  ignominiously  captured  by 
his  Majesty's  gamekeeper.  But  the  allegory 
hardly  runs  upon  all-fours. 

The  next  "  eglogue  "  represents  again  another 
visit  to  the  prisoner,  and  this  tilne  Willy  and 
Cuddy  bring  Alexis  with  them  ;  perhaps  Alexis 
is  John  Davies,  of  Hereford,  another  contributor 
to  The  Shepherd's  Pipe.  Roget  starts  his  alle- 
gory again,  in  the  same  mild,  satiric  manner  he 
had  adopted,  to  his  hurt,  in  Abuses  siript  and 
whipt.  Wither  becomes  quite  delightful  again, 
when  cheerfulness  breaks  through  this  satirical 
philosophy,  and  when  he  tells  us  : 

^ut  though  that  all  the  world's  delight  forsake  me, 
I  have  a  3Iuse,  and  she  shall  music  ma\e  me  ; 
Whose  aery  notes,  in  spite  of  closest  cages, 
Shall  give  content  to  me  and  after  ages. 

They  all  felt  certain  of  immortality,  these  cheer- 


48  Gossip  in  a  Library 

fill  poets  of  Elizabeth  and  James,  and  Prince 
Posterity  has  seen  proper  to  admit  the  claim  in 
more  instances  than  might  well  have  been  ex- 
pected. 

But  the  delightful  part  of  The  Shepherd's 
Hunting  has  yet  to  come.  With  the  fourth 
"  eglogue  "  the  caged  bird  begins  to  sing  like  a  lark 
at  Heaven's  gate,  and  it  is  the  prisoned  man — 
M^ho  ought  to  be  in  doleful  dumps — that  rallies 
his  free  friend  Browne  on  his  low  spirits.  It  is 
time,  he  says,  to  be  merry  : 

Coridon,  with  his  bold  rout. 
Hath  already  been  about, 
For  the  elder  shepherds^  dole, 
And  fetched  in  the  sufnmer  pole  ; 
Whilst  the  rest  have  built  a  bower 
To  defend  them  from  a  shower, 
Sealed  so  close,  zvith  boughs  all  green, 
Titan  cannot  pry  between  ; 
[N^ow  the  dairy-wenches  dream 
Of  their  Jlraw berries  and  cream, 
Jind  each  doth  herself  advance. 
To  be  ta\cn  in  to  dance. 

What    summer    thoughts    are  these  to  come 
from    a    pale    prisoner   in    the    hot    and    putrid 


A   Poet  in  Prison  49 

Marshalsea !  They  are  either  symptoms  of 
acute  nostalgia,  or  proofs  of  a  cheerfulness  that 
lifts  their  author  above  a  mortal  pitch.  But 
Willy  declines  to  join  the  Lady  of  the  May  at 
her  high  junketings  ;  he  also  has  troubles,  and 
prefers  to  whisper  them  through  Roget's  iron 
bars.  There  are  those  who  "  my  Music  do 
contemn,"  who  will  none  of  the  poetry  of  Master 
William  Browne  of  the  Inner  Temple.  It  is 
useless  for  him  to  wrestle  with  brown  shepherds 

for  the 

Cups  of  turned  maple-root. 
Whereupon  the  skilful  man 
Hath  engraved  the  Loves  of  Tan, 

or  contend  for  the  "  fine  napkin  wrought  with 
blue,"  if  those  base  clowns  called  critics  are  busy 
with  his  detraction.  But  Roget  instructs  him 
that  Verse  is  its  own  high  reward,  that  the  songs 
of  a  true  poet  will  naturally  arise  like  the  moon 
out  of  and  beyond  all  racks  of  envious  cloud, 
and  that  the  last  thing  he  should  do  is  to  despair. 
He  rises  to  his  own  greatest  and  best  work  in 
this  encouragement  of  a  brother-poet,  and  no 
one  who  reads  such   noble  verses  as  these  dare 

D 


50  Gossip  in  a   Library 

question    Wither's    claim    to    a   fauteiiil    in   the 
Academ}'  of  Parnassus  : 

If  thy  Verse  do  bravely  tower 
e/j  she  ma\es  wing,  she  gets  pozper^ 
Tet  the  higher  she  doth  soar, 
She's  affronted  still  the  more  s 
Till  she  to  the  highest  hath  fast, 
Then  she  rests  with  Fame  at  last. 
Let  nought  therefore  thee  affright. 
But  make  forward  in  thy  flight ; 
For  if  I  could  match  thy  rhyme 
To  the  very  stars  Fd  climb, 
There  begin  again,  and  fly 
Till  I  reached  Eternity. 

In  the  fifth  "  eglogue "  Roget  and  Alexis 
compare  notes  about  their  early  happiness  in 
phrases  of  an  odd  commixture.  The  pastoral 
character  of  the  poetrj'^  has  to  be  carried  out, 
and  so  we  read  of  how  Roget  on  a  great  occasion 
pla3'ed  a  match  at  football,  "  ha\'ing  scarce  tw'enty 
Sat}TS  on  his  side,"  against  some  of  "  the  best 
tried  Ruffians  in  the  land.'"  Great  Pan  presided 
at  that  match  b}'  the  banks  of  Thames,  and 
though  the  sat}TS  and  their  laureate  leader  were 
worsted,   the   moral   victory,   as    people    call    it, 


A  Poet  in  Prison  51 

remained  with  the  latter.  All  this  is  an  allegory  ; 
and  indeed  we  walk  in  the  \er\'  shadow  of 
innuendo  all  through  T/ie  Shepherd's  Hunting. 

The  moral  of  the  whole  thing  is  that  eternal 
ditty  of  tuneful  youth  :  All  for  \"erse  and  the 
World  well  lost.  The  enem}-  is  around  them  on 
all  sides,  jailers  of  the  Marshalsea  and  en\'ious 
critics,  the  evil  shepherds  that  preside  over  grates 
of  steel  and  noisome  beds  of  straw,  but  Youth 
has  its  mocking  answer  to  all  these  : 


■"o 


Let  tkem  disaain  and  fret  till  they  are  wears  I 
IVe  in  ourselves  have  that  shall  make  us  merry  ; 
Which  he  that  wants  and  had  the  power  to  know  it, 
Would  give  his  life  that  he  might  die  a  poet. 

It  was  no  small  thing  to  be  suffering  for 
Apollo's  sake  in  16 14.  Shakespeare  might  hear 
of  it  at  Stratford,  and  talk  of  the  prisoner  as  he 
strolled  with  some  friend  on  the  banks  of  Avon. 
A  greater  than  Shakespeare — as  most  men 
thought  in  those  days — Ben  Jonson  himself, 
might  talk  the  matter  over  "  at  those  h-ric  feasts, 
Made  at  the  Sun,  The  Dog,  the  triple  Tun  "  ; 
for  had   not  he   himself  languished  in  a  worse 


52  Gossip  In  a  Library 

dungeon  and  under  a  heavier  charge  than  Wither  ? 
To  be  seven-and-twenty,  to  be  in  trouble  with 
the  Government  about  one's  verses,  and  to  have 
other  young  poets,  in  a  ferment  of  enthusiasm, 
chnging  hke  swallows  to  the  prison-bars — how 
delicious  a  torment  !  And  to  know  that  it  will 
soon  be  over,  and  that  the  sweet,  pure  meadows 
lie  just  outside  the  reck  of  Southwark,  that 
summer  lingers  still  and  that  shepherds  pipe  and 
play,  that  Fame  is  sitting  by  her  cheerful  fountain 
with  a  garland  for  the  weary  head,  and  that 
lasses,  "  who  more  excell  Than  the  sweet-voic'd 
Philomel,"  are  ready  to  cluster  round  the  interest- 
ing captive,  and  lead  him  away  in  daisy-chains 
— what  could  be  more  consolatory  !  And  we 
close  the  little  dainty  volume,  with  its  delicate 
perfume  of  friendship  and  poetry  and  hope. 


DEATH'S  DUEL 


Death's  Duel 

Death's  Dvell  ;  or,  A  Consolation  to  the  Souk,  against  the  dying  Life, 
and  liuing  Death  of  the  'Body.  'Deliuered  in  a  Sermon  at  White 
Hall,  before  the  /Qng's  c^aiesty,  in  the  beginning  of  Lent,  1 6  30. 
'By  that  late  learned  and  'Rjuerend  'Diuine,  John  'Donne,  Dr.  in 
Divinity,  &f  Deane  of  S.  Tauls,  London.  'Being  his  last  Sermon, 
and  called  by  his  Maiesties  household  The  'Doctor'' s  civne  Funerall 
Sermon.  London,  Printed  by  Thomas  Harper,  for  ^S^chard  "R^dmer 
and  'Benjamin  Fisher,  and  are  to  be  sold  at  the  signe  of  the  Talbot  in 
^Iders.gate  Street.      MDCXXXIL 

The  value  of  this  tiny  quarto  with  the  enormous 
title  depends  entirely,  so  far  as  the  collector  is 
concerned,  on  whether  or  no  it  possesses  the 
frontispiece.  So  many  people,  not  having  the 
fear  of  books  before  their  eyes,  have  divorced  the 
latter  from  the  former,  that  a  perfect  copy  of 
DeatKs  Duel  is  quite  a  capture  over  which  the 
young  bibliophile  may  venture  to  glory  ;  but  let 
him  not  fancy  that  he  has  a  prize  if  his  copy 
does  not  possess  the  portrait-plate.       One    has 


56  Gossip  in  a  Library 

but  to  glance  for  a  moment  at  this  frontispiece 
to  see  that  there  is  here  something  very  much 
out  of  the  common.  It  is  engraved  in  the  best 
seventeenth-century  style,  and  represents,  appa- 
rently, the  head  and  bust  of  a  dead  man  wrapped 
in  a  winding-sheet.  The  eyes  are  shut,  the 
mouth  is  drawn,  and  nothing  was  ever  seen  more 
ghastly. 

Yet  it  is  not  really  the  picture  of  a  dead 
man :  it  represents  the  result  of  one  of  the 
grimmest  freaks  that  ever  entered  into  a  pious 
mind.  In  the  early  part  of  March  1630  (163 1), 
the  great  Dr.  Donne,  Dean  of  St.  Paul's,  being 
desperately  ill,  and  not  likely  to  recover,  called  a 
wood-carver  in  to  the  Deanery,  and  ordered  a 
small  urn,  just  large  enough  to  hold  his  feet,  and  a 
board  as  long  as  his  body,  to  be  produced.  When 
these  articles  were  ready,  they  were  brought  into 
his  study,  which  was  first  warmed,  and  then  the 
old  man  stripped  off  his  clothes,  wrapped  himself 
in  a  winding-sheet  which  was  open  only  so  far  as 
to  reveal  the  face  and  beard,  and  then  stood  up- 
right in  the  little  wooden  urn,  supported  by  leaning 
against  the  board.      His  limbs  were  arranged  like 


Death's  Duel  5y 

those  of  dead  persons,  and  when  his  eyes  had 
been  closed,  a  painter  was  introduced  into  the 
room,  and  desired  to  make  a  full-length  and  full- 
size  picture  of  this  terrific  object,  this  solemn 
theatrical  presentment  of  life  in  death.  The 
frontispiece  of  Death's  Duel  gives  a  reproduction 
of  the  upper  part  of  this  picture.  It  was  said 
to  be  a  remarkably  truthful  portrait  of  the  great 
poet  and  divine,  and  it  certainly  agrees  in  all  its 
proportions  with  the  accredited  portrait  of  Donne 
as  a  young  man. 

It  appears  (for  Walton's  account  is  not  pre- 
cise) that  it  was  after  standing  for  this  grim 
picture,  but  before  its  being  finished,  that  the 
Dean  preached  his  last  sermon,  that  which  is 
here  printed.  He  had  come  up  from  Essex  in 
great  physical  weakness  in  order  not  to  miss  his 
appointment  to  preach  in  his  cathedral  before  the 
King  on  the  first  Friday  in  Lent.  He  entered 
the  pulpit  with  so  emaciated  a  frame  and  a  face 
so  pale  and  haggard,  and  spoke  with  a  voice  so 
faint  and  hollow,  that  at  the  end  the  King  him- 
self turned  to  one  of  his  suite,  and  whispered, 
"The    Dean    has     preached     his     own    funeral 


58  Gossip  In  a  Library 

sermon  ! "  So,  indeed,  it  proved  to  be  ;  for  he 
presently  withdrew  to  his  bed,  and  summoned 
his  friends  around  to  take  a  solemn  farewell. 
He  died  very  gradually  after  about  a  fortnight, 
his  last  words  being,  not  in  distress  or  anguish, 
but  as  it  would  seem  in  visionary  rapture  :  "  I 
were  miserable  if  I  might  not  die."  All  this 
fortnight  and  to  the  moment  of  his  death,  the 
terrible  life-sized  portrait  of  himself  in  his 
winding-sheet  stood  near  his  bedside,  where  it 
could  be  the  "  hourly  object "  of  his  attention. 
So  one  of  the  greatest  Churchmen  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  and  one  of  the  greatest,  if  the 
most  eccentric,  of  its  13'rical  poets  passed  away 
in  the  very  pomp  of  death,  on  the  31st  of  March 
1631. 

There  was  something  eminently  calculated  to 
arrest  and  move  the  imagination  in  such  an  end 
as  this,  and  people  were  eager  to  read  the  dis- 
course which  the  "  sacred  authority "  of  his 
Majesty  himself  had  styled  the  Dean's  funeral 
sermon.  It  was  therefore  printed  in  1632.  As 
sermons  of  the  period  go  it  is  not  long,  yet  it 
takes  a  full  hour  to  read  it  slowly  aloud,  and  we 


Death's   Duel  59 

may  thus  estimate  the  strain  which  it  must  have 
given  to  the  worn-out  voice  and  body  of  the 
Dean  to  deliver  it.  The  present  writer  once 
heard  a  very  eminent  Churchman,  who  was  also 
a  great  poet,  preach  his  last  sermon,  at  the  age  of 
ninety.  This  was  the  Danish  bishop  Grundtvig. 
But  in  that  case  the  effort  of  speaking,  the  ex- 
traction, as  it  seemed,  of  the  sepulchral  voice 
from  the  shrunken  and  ashen  face,  did  not  last 
more  than  ten  minutes.  But  the  English  divines 
of  the  Jacobean  age,  like  their  Scottish  brethren 
of  to-day,  were  accustomed  to  stupendous  efforts 
of  endurance  from  their  very  diaconate. 

The  sermon  is  one  of  the  most  "  creepy " 
fragments  of  theological  literature  it  would  be 
easy  to  find.  It  takes  as  its  text  the  words 
from  the  sixty-eighth  Psalm  :  "  And  unto  God 
the  Lord  belong  the  issues  of  death."  In  long, 
stern  sentences  of  sonorous  magnificence,  adorned 
with  fine  similes  and  gorgeous  words,  as  the 
funeral  trappings  of  a  king  might  be  with  gold 
lace,  the  dying  poet  shrinks  from  no  physical 
horror  and  no  ghostly  terror  of  the  great  crisis 
which    he  was  himself  to  be   the   first    to    pass 


6o  Gossip  in  a  Library 

through.  "  That  which  we  call  life,"  he  says, 
and  our  blood  seems  to  turn  chilly  in  our  veins 
as  we  listen,  "  is  but  Hcbdomada  nwrtiuni,  a 
week  of  death,  seven  days,  seven  periods  of  our 
life  spent  in  dying,  a  dying  seven  times  over, 
and  there  is  an  end.  Our  birth  dies  in  infancy', 
and  our  infancy  dies  in  youth,  and  youth  and 
rest  die  in  age,  and  age  also  dies  and  determines 
all.  Nor  do  all  these,  youth  out  of  infancy,  or 
age  out  of  youth,  arise  so  as  a  Phoenix  out  of 
the  ashes  of  another  Phoenix  formerly  dead,  but 
as  a  wasp  or  a  serpent  out  of  a  carrion  or  as  a 
snake  out  of  dung."  We  can  comprehend  how 
an  audience  composed  of  men  and  women  whose 
ne'er-do-weel  relatives  went  to  the  theatre  to  be 
stirred  by  such  tragedies  as  those  of  Marston 
and  Cyril  Tourneur  would  themselves  snatch  a 
sacred  pleasure  from  awful  language  of  this  kind 
in  the  pulpit.  There  is  not  much  that  we  should 
call  doctrine,  no  pensive  or  consolatory  teaching, 
no  appeal  to  souls  in  the  modern  sense.  The 
effect  aimed  at  is  that  of  horror,  of  solemn 
preparation  for  the  advent  of  death,  as  by  one 
who  fears,   in   the   flutter   of  mortality,   to   lose 


Death's  Duel  6i 

some  peculiarity  of  the  skeleton,  some  jag  of 
the  vast  crooked  scythe  of  the  spectre.  The 
most  ingenious  of  poets,  the  most  subtle  of 
divines,  whose  life  had  been  spent  in  examining 
Man  in  the  crucible  of  his  own  alchemist  fancy, 
seems  anxious  to  preserve  to  the  very  last  his 
powers  of  unflinching  spiritual  observation.  The 
Dean  of  St.  Paul's,  whose  reputation  for  learned 
sanctity  had  scarcely  sufficed  to  shelter  him 
from  scandal  on  the  ground  of  his  fantastic 
defence  of  suicide,  was  familiar  with  the  idea  of 
Death,  and  greeted  him  as  a  welcome  old  friend 
whose  face  he  was  glad  to  look  on  long  and 
closely. 

The  leaves  at  the  end  of  this  little  book  are 
filled  up  with  two  copies  of  funeral  verses  on 
Dean  Donne.  These  are  unsigned,  but  we  know 
from  other  sources  to  whom  to  attribute  them. 
Each  is  by  an  eminent  man.  The  first  was  written 
by  Dr.  Henry  King,  then  the  royal  chaplain,  and 
afterward  Bishop  of  Chichester,  to  whom  the 
Dean  had  left,  besides  a  model  in  gold  of  the 
Synod  of  Dort,  that  painting  of  himself  in  the 
winding-sheet  of  which  we  have  already  spoken. 


62  Gossip  in  a  Library 

This  portrait  Dr.  King  put  into  the  hands  of  a 
sculptor,  who  made  a  reproduction  of  it  in  white 
marble,  with  the  little  urn  concealing  the  feet. 
This  long  remained  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  of 
which  King  was  chief  residentiary,  but  it  no 
longer  exists.  His  elegy  is  very  prosy  in  start- 
ing, but  improves  as  it  goes  along,  and  is  most 
ingenious  throughout.  These  are  the  words  in 
which  Dr.  King  refers  to  the  appearance  of  the 
dying  preacher  in  the  pulpit  : 

Tkou  (like  the  dying  Swan)  diast  lately  sing 
Thy  mournful  dirge  in  audience  of  the  King  ; 
When  pale  looks ^  and  wea\  accents  of  thy  breath 
Presented  so  to  life  that  piece  of  death, 
That  it  was  feared  and  prophesied  by  all 
Thou  thither  cani'st  to  preach  thy  funeral. 

The  other  elegy  was  written  by  a  young 
man  of  twenty-one,  who  was  modestly  and 
enthusiastically  seeking  the  company  of  the  most 
famous  London  wits.  This  was  Edward  Hyde, 
thirty  years  later  to  become  Earl  of  Clarendon, 
and  finally  to  leave  behind  him  manuscripts  which 
should  prove  him  the  first  great  English  historian. 


Death's  Duel  63 

His  verses  here  bespeak  his  good   intention,  but 
no  facility  in  rhyming. 

It  was  left  for  the  riper  disciples  of  the  great 
divine  to  sing  his  funerals  in  more  effective 
numbers.  Of  the  crowd  of  poets  who  attended 
him  with  music  to  the  grave,  none  expressed  his 
merits  in  such  excellent  verses  or  with  so  much 
critical  judgment  as  Thomas  Carew,  the  king's 
sewer  in  ordinary.  It  is  not  so  well  known  but. 
that  we  quote  some  lines  from  it : — 

The  fire 
That  fills  with  spirit  and  heat  the  Delphic  choir. 
Which,  kindlea  first  by  thy  Tromet heart  breath, 
GloWd  here  awhile,  lies  quench' d  now  in  thy  death. 
The  IMuses'  garden,  with  pedantic  needs 
Overspread,  was  purg'd  by  thee,  the  laxy  seeds 
Of  servile  imitation  thrown  away, 
Jlnd  fresh  invention  planted  ;  thou  didst  pay 
The  debts  of  our  pe?iurious  bankrupt  age. 

***** 

Whatsoever  wrong 
*By  ours  was  done  the  Greek  or  Latin  tongue. 
Thou  hast  redeemed,  and  opened  us  a  mine 
Of  rich  and  pregnant  fancy,  drawn  a  line 
Of  masculine  expression,  t^hich,  had  good 
Old  Orpheus  seen,  or  all  the  ancient  brood 


64  Gossip  in  a  Library. 

Our  superstitious  fools  admire,  ajid  hold 

Their  lead  more  precious  than  thy  burnished  gold. 

Thou  hadst  been  their  exchequer 

Let  others  carve  the  rest  ;  it  'will  suffice 

I  on  thy  grave  this  epitaph  incise : — 

Here  lies  a  King,  that  ruled  as  he  thought  jit 

The  universal  monarchy  of  wit  ; 

Here  lies  two  Flamens,  and  both  these  the  best, — 

t/fpollo's  frst,  at  last  the  True  Qods  priest. 

The  materials  for  a  Life  of  Dr.  Donne  are 
fairly  copious,  but  no  good  memoir  of  him  exists, 
none  better  than  the  garrulous  and  amiable 
narrative  of  Izaak  Walton.  To  chronicle  the 
career  of  this  extraordinary  man,  with  all  its 
hot  and  cold  fits,  its  rage  of  lyrical  amativeness, 
its  Roman  passion,  the  high  and  cloudy  serenity 
of  its  final  Anglicanism,  would  be  a  fine  piece 
of  work  for  a  writer  of  leisure  and  enthusiasm. 
Donne  is  one  of  the  most  fascinating,  in  some 
ways  one  of  the  most  inscrutable,  figures  in  our 
literature,  and  we  would  fain  see  his  portrait 
drawn  from  his  first  wild  escapade  into  the 
Azores  down  to  his  voluntary  penitence  in  the 
pulpit  and  the  winding-sheet. 


GERARD'S  HERBAL 


Gerard's  Herbal 

The  Heruall  or  general  Historie  of  Tlantes.  gathered  by  John 
gerarde,  of  London,  oyifjster  in  Chir-vrgerie.  Very  much  enlarged 
and  amended  by  Thomas  Johnson,  citizen  and  apothecarye  of  L'jndon. 
London,  Piinted  by  ^dam  blip,  Joice  Norton,  and  %jchardWh:ta- 
kers.      tAnno  1633. 

The  proverb  says  that  a  door  must  be  either 
open  or  shut.  The  bibhophile  is  apt  to  think 
that  a  book  should  be  either  little  or  big.  For 
my  own  part,  I  become  more  and  more  attached 
to  "  dumpy  twelves  "  ;  but  that  does  not  preclude 
a  certain  discreet  fondness  for  folios.  If  a  man 
collects  books,  his  library  ought  to  contain  a 
Herbal ;  and  if  he  has  but  room  for  one,  that 
should  be  the  best.  The  luxurious  and  sufficient 
thing,  I  think,  is  to  possess  what  booksellers  call 
"  the  right  edition  of  Gerard " ;  that  is  to  say, 
the  volume  described  at  the  head  of  this  paper. 
There  is  no  handsomer  book  to  be  found,  none 


68  Gossip  in  a  Library 

more  stately  or  imposing,  than  this  magnificent 
folio  of  sixteen  hundred  pages,  with  its  close,  elabo- 
rate letterpress,  its  innumerable  plates,  and  John 
Payne's  fine  frontispiece  in   compartments,   with 
Theophrastus  and  Dioscorides  facing  one  another, 
and  the  author  below  them,  holding  in  his  right 
hand  the  new-found  treasure  of  the  potato  plant. 
This  edition  of  1633  is  the  final  development 
of  what  had  been  a  slow  growth.      The  sixteenth 
century    witnessed     a    great    revival,    almost    a 
creation  of  the  science  of  botany.      People  began 
to  translate  the  great  Materia  Medica  of  the  Greek 
physician,  Dioscorides  of  Anazarba,  and  to  com- 
ment upon  it.      The   Germans  were   the   first   to 
append     woodcuts     to    their    botanical    descrip- 
tions, and  it   is  Otto   Brunfelsius,  in    1530,  who 
has  the  credit  of  being   the   originator   of   such 
figures.     In  1554  there  was  pubhshed   the  first 
great    Herbal,    that    of    Rembertus    Dodonaeus, 
body-physician  to  the   Emperor  Maximilian   II., 
who  wrote  in   Dutch.      An    English    translation 
of   this,    brought    out    in    1578,    by   Lyte,   was 
the    earliest     important     Herbal     in     our     lan- 
guage.     Five    years    later,    in    1583,    a    certain 


Gerard's  Herbal  69 

Dr.  Priest  translated  all  the  botanical  works  of 
Dodonasus,  with  much  greater  fulness  than  Lyte 
had  done,  and  this  volume  was  the  germ  of 
Gerard's  far  more  famous  production.  John 
Gerard  was  a  Cheshire  man,  born  in  1545,  who 
came  up  to  London,  and  practised  v/ith  much 
success  as  a  surgeon.  According  to  his  editor 
and  continuator,  Thomas  Johnson,  who  speaks 
of  Gerard  with  startling  freedom,  this  excellent 
man  was  by  no  means  well  equipped  for  the  task 
of  compiling  a  great  Herbal.  He  knew  so  little 
Latin,  according  to  this  too  candid  friend,  that 
he  imagined  Leonard  Fuchsius,  who  was  a  Ger- 
man contemporary  of  his  own,  to  be  one  of  the 
ancients.  But  Johnson  is  a  little  too  zealous 
in  magnifying  his  own  office.  He  brings  a  worse 
accusation  against  Gerard,  if  I  understand  him 
rightly  to  charge  him  with  using  Dr.  Priest's 
manuscript  collections  after  his  death,  without 
giving  that  physician  the  credit  of  his  labours. 
When  Johnson  made  this  accusation,  Gerard  had 
been  dead  twenty-six  years.  In  any  case  it  seems 
certain  that  Gerard's  original  Herbal,  which,  be- 
yond   question,    surpassed   all   its    predecessors 


70  Gossip  in  a  Library 

when  it  was  printed  in  folio  in  1597,  was  built 
up  upon  the  ground-work  of  Priest's  translation  of 
Dodonaeus.  Nearly  forty  j^ears  later,  Thomas 
Johnson,  himself  a  celebrated  botanist,  took  up 
the  book,  and  spared  no  pains  to  reissue  it  in 
perfect  form.  The  result  is  the  great  volume 
before  us,  an  elephant  among  books,  the  noblest 
of  all  the  English  Herbals.  Johnson  was 
seventy-two  years  of  age  when  he  got  this 
gigantic  work  off  his  hands,  and  he  lived  eleven 
years  longer  to  enjoy  his  legitimate  success. 

The  great  charm  of  this  book  at  the  present 
time  consists  in  the  copious  woodcuts.  Of  these 
there  are  more  than  two  thousand,  each  a  careful 
and  original  study  from  the  plant  itself.  In  the 
course  of  two  centuries  and  a  half,  with  all  the 
advance  in  appliances,  we  have  not  improved  a 
whit  on  the  original  artist  of  Gerard's  and  John- 
son's time.  The  drawings  are  all  in  strong- 
outline,  with  very  little  attempt  at  shading,  but 
the  characteristics  of  each  plant  are  given  with 
a  truth  and  a  simplicity  which  are  almost  Japan- 
ese. In  no  case  is  this  more  extraoidinary 
than   in   that  of  the  orchids,  or  "  satyrions,"  as 


Gerard's   Herbal  71 

they  were  called  in  the  days  of  the  old  herbalist. 
Here,  in  a  succession  of  little  figures,  each  not 
more  than  six  inches  high,  the  peculiarity  of 
every  portion  of  a  full-grown  flowering  specimen 
of  each  species  is  given  with  absolute  perfection, 
without  being  slurred  over  on  the  one  hand,  or 
exaggerated  on  the  other.  For  instance,  the 
little  variety  called  "  ladies'  tresses  "  \_Sptranthes], 
which  throws  a  spiral  head  of  pale  green  blossoms 
out  of  dry  pastures,  appears  here  with  small  bells 
hanging  on  a  twisted  stem,  as  accurately  as  the 
best  photograph  could  give  it,  although  the  pro- 
cess of  woodcutting,  as  then  practised  in  England, 
was  very  rude,  and  although  almost  all  other 
English  illustrations  of  the  period  are  rough 
and  inartistic.  It  is  plain  that  in  every  instance 
the  botanist  himself  drew  the  form,  with  which 
he  was  already  intelHgently  familiar,  on  the  block, 
with  the  living  plant  lying  at  his  side. 

The  plan  on  which  the  herbalist  lays  out  his 
letterpress  is  methodical  in  the  extrem.e.  He 
begins  by  describing  his  plant,  then  gives  its 
habitat,  then  discusses  its  nomenclature,  and 
ends  with  a  medical  account  of  its  nature  and 


72  Gossip  in  a  Library 

virtues.  It  is,  of  course,  to  be  expected  that 
we  should  find  the  fine  old  names  of  plants 
enshrined  in  Gerard's  pages.  For  instance,  he 
gives  to  the  deadly  nightshade  the  name,  which 
now  only  lingers  in  a  corner  of  Devonshire,  the 
"  dwale."  As  an  instance  of  his  style,  I  may 
quote  a  passage  from  what  he  has  to  say  about 
the  virtues,  or  rather  vices,  of  this  plant : 

"  Banish  it  from  your  gardens  and  the  use  of 
it  also,  being  a  plant  so  furious  and  deadly  ;  for 
it  bringeth  such  as  have  eaten  thereof  into  a 
dead  sleep  wherein  many  have  died,  as  hath  been 
often  seen  and  proved  by  experience  both  in 
England  and  elsewhere.  But  to  give  you  an 
example  hereof  it  shall  not  be  amiss.  It  came 
to  pass  that  three  bo3'S  of  Wisbeach,  in  the  Isle 
of  Ely,  did  eat  of  the  pleasant  and  beautifu'l 
fruit  hereof,  two  whereof  died  in  less  than  eight 
hours  after  they  had  eaten  of  them.  The  third 
child  had  a  quantity  of  honey  and  water  mixed 
together  given  him  to  drink,  causing  him  to 
vomit  often.  God  blessed  this  means,  and  the 
child  recovered.  Banish,  therefore,  these  per- 
nicious   plants    out    of   your    gardens,    and    all 


Gerard's  Herbal  73 

places  near   to  your  houses  where  children  do 
resort." 

Gerard  has  continually  to  stop  his  description 
that  he  may  repeat  to  his  readers  some  anecdote 
which  he  remembers.  Now  it  is  how  "  Master 
Cartwright,  a  gentleman  of  Gray's  Inn,  who  was 
grievously  wounded  into  the  lungs,"  was  cured 
with  the  herb  called  "  Saracen's  Compound," 
"  and  that,  by  God's  permission,  in  short  space." 
Now  it  is  to  tell  us  that  he  has  found  yellow 
archangel  growing  under  a  sequestered  hedge 
"  on  the  left  hand  as  you  go  from  the  village  of 
Hampstead,  near  London,  to  the  church,"  or  that 
"  this  amiable  and  pleasant  kind  of  primrose  " 
(a  sort  of  oxlip)  was  first  brought  to  light  by 
Mr.  Hesketh,  "  a  diligent  searcher  after  simples," 
in  a  Yorkshire  wood.  While  the  groundlings 
were  crowding  to  see  new  plays  by  Shirley  and 
Massinger,  the  editor  of  this  volume  was  ex- 
amining fresh  varieties  of  auricula  in  "  the 
gardens  of  Mr.  Tradescant  and  Mr.  Tuggie." 
It  is  wonderful  how  modern  the  latter  statement 
sounds,  and  how  ancient  the  former.  But  the 
garden    seems    the    one    spot    on  earth    where 


74  Gossip  in  a  Library 

history  does  not  assert  itself,  and,  no  doubt, 
when  Nero  was  fiddling  over  the  blaze  of  Rome, 
there  were  florists  counting  the  petals  of  rival 
roses  at  Paestum  as  peacefully  and  conscientiously 
as  any  gardeners  of  to-day. 

The  herbalist  and  his  editor  write  from  per- 
sonal experience,  and  this  gives  them  a  great 
advantage  in  dealing  with  superstitions.  If  there 
was  anything  which  people  were  certain  about 
in  the  early  part  of  the  seventeenth  century,  it 
was  that  the  mandrake  only  grew  under  a 
gallows,  where  the  dead  body  of  a  man  had 
fallen  to  pieces,  and  that  when  it  was  dug  up  it 
gave  a  great  shriek,  which  was  fatal  to  the 
nearest  living  thing.  Gerard  contemptuously 
rejects  all  these  and  other  tales  as  "  old  wives* 
dreams."  He  and  his  servants  have  often  digged 
up  mandrakes,  and  are  not  only  still  alive,  but 
listened  in  vain  for  the  dreadful  scream.  It 
might  be  supposed  that  such  a  statement,  from 
so  eminent  an  authority,  would  settle  the  point, 
but  we  find  Sir  Thomas  Browne,  in  the  next 
generation,  battling  these  identical  popular  errors 
in    the    pages    of    his    Pscudodoxia    Epidemica, 


Gerard's  Herbal  J^ 

In  the  like  manner,  Gerard's  botanical  evidence 
seems  to  have  been  of  no  use  in  persuading  the 
public  that  mistletoe  was  not  generated  out  of 
birdlime  dropped  by  thrushes  into  the  boughs 
of  trees,  or  that  its  berries  were  not  desperately 
poisonous.  To  observe  and  state  the  truth  is 
not  enough.  The  ears  of  those  to  whom  it  is 
proclaimed  must  be  ready  to  accept  it. 

Our  good  herbalist,  however,  cannot  get 
through  his  sixteen  hundred  accurate  and  solemn 
pages  without  one  slip.  After  accompanying 
him  dutifully  so  far,  we  double  up  with  uncon- 
trollable laughter  on  p.  1587,  for  here  begins 
the  chapter  which  treats  "  of  the  Goose  Tree, 
Barnacle  Tree,  or  the  Tree  bearing  Geese."  But 
even  here  the  habit  of  genuine  observation  clings 
to  him.  The  picture  represents  a  group  of 
stalked  barnacles — those  shrimps  fixed  by  their 
antennoe,  which  modern  science,  I  believe,  calls 
Lepas  anatifera;  by  the  side  of  these  stands 
a  little  goose,  and  the  suggestion  of  course  is 
that  the  latter  has  slipped  out  of  the  former, 
although  the  draughtsman  has  been  far  too  con- 
scientious to  represent  the  occurrence.      Yet  the 


76  Gossip  in  a  Library 

letterpress  is  confident  that  in  the  north  parts 
of  Scotland  there  are  trees  on  which  grow  white 
shells,  which  ripen,  and  then,  opening,  drop  little 
living  geese  into  the  waves  below.  Gerard 
himself  avers  that  from  Guernsey  and  Jersey  he 
brought  home  with  him  to  London  shells,  like 
limpets,  containing  little  feathery  objects,  "which, 
no  doubt,  were  the  fowls  called  Barnacles."  It 
is  almost  needless  to  say  that  these  objects  really 
were  the  plumose  and  flexible  cii^ri  which  the 
barnacles  throw  out  to  catch  their  food  with,  and 
which  lie,  like  a  tiny  feather-brush,  just  within 
the  valves  of  the  shell,  when  the  creature  is 
dead.  Gerard  was  plainly  unable  to  refuse  cre- 
dence to  the  mass  of  evidence  which  presented 
itself  to  him  on  this  subject,  yet  he  closes  with 
a  hint  that  this  seems  rather  a  "  fabulous  breed" 
of  geese. 

With  the  Barnacle  Goose  Tree  the  Herbal 
proper  closes,  in  these  quaint  words  : 

"  And  thus"  having,  through  God's  assistance, 
discoursed  somewhat  at  large  of  grasses,  herbs, 
shrubs,  trees  and  mosses,  and  certain  excres- 
cences  of    the    earth,    with   other    things    moe, 


Gerard's  Herbal  jj 

incident  to  the  history  thereof,  we  conclude,  and 
end  our  present  volume  with  this  wonder  of 
Ensfland.  For  the  which  God's  name  be  ever 
honoured  and  praised." 

And  so,  at  last,  the  Goose  Tree  receives  the 
highest  sanction. 


PHARAMOND 


Pharamond 

Pharamond;  or,  The  History  of  France.  tA  O^ew  ^mance.  In  four 
parts.  Written  originally  in  French,  by  the  yJuthor  of  Cassandra  and 
Cleopatra  :  and  new  eLgantty  rendred  into  English.  London  : 
T  tinted  by  J  a  :  Cottrell,  for  Samuel  Speed,  at  the  %ain-Boiv  in 
Fleetstreet,  near  the  Inner  Temple-Qate.     (Folio.)     1662. 

There  is  no  better  instance  of  the  fact  that 
books  will  not  live  by  good  works  alone  than  is 
offered  by  the  utterly  neglected  heroic  novels  of 
the  seventeenth  century.  At  the  opening  of  the 
reign  of  Louis  XIV.  in  France,  several  writers, 
in  the  general  dearth  of  prose  fiction,  began  to 
supply  the  public  in  Paris  with  a  series  of  long 
romances,  which  for  at  least  a  generation  ab- 
sorbed the  attention  of  the  ladies  and  reigned 
unopposed  in  every  boudoir.  I  wonder  whether 
my  lady  readers  have  ever  attempted  to  realise 
how  their  sisters  of  two  hundred  years  ago  spent 
their  time  ?      In   an   Enghsh    country-house   of 

F 


82  Gossip  in  a  Library 

1650,  there  were  no  magazines,  no  newspapers, 
no  lawn  tennis  or  croquet,  no  afternoon-teas  or 
glee-concerts,  no  mothers'  meetings  or  zenana 
missions,  no  free  social  intercourse  with  neigh- 
bours, none  of  the  thousand  and  one  agreeable 
diversions  with  which  the  life  of  a  modern  girl 
is  diversified.  On  the  other  hand,  the  ladies  of 
the  house  had  their  needlework  to  attend  to, 
they  had  to  "  stitch  in  a  clout,"  as  it  was  called ; 
they  had  to  attend  to  the  duties  of  a  house- 
keeper, and,  when  the  sun  shone,  they  tended 
the  garden.  Perhaps  they  rode  or  drove,  in  a 
stately  fashion.  But  through  long  hours  they 
sat  over  their  embroidery  frames  or  mended  the 
solemn  old  tapestries  which  lined  their  walls, 
and  during  these  sedate  performances  they  re- 
quired a  long-winded,  polite,  unexciting,  stately 
book  that  might  be  read  aloud  by  turns.  The 
heroic  novel,  as  provided  by  Gombreville, 
Calprenede,  and  Mile,  de  Scudery  supplied  this 
want  to  perfection. 

The  sentiments  in  these  novels  were  of  the 
most  elevated  class,  and  tedious  as  they  seem 
nowadays    to   us,  it  was   the  sentiments,   almost 


Pharamond  83 


more  than  the  action,  which  fascinated  contem- 
porary opinion.  Madame  de  Sevigne  herself, 
the  brightest  and  wittiest  of  women,  confessed 
herself  to  be  a  fly  in  the  spider's  web  of  their 
attractions.  "  The  beauty  of  the  sentiments," 
she  writes,  "  the  violence  of  the  passions,  the 
grandeur  of  the  events,  and  the  miraculous 
success  of  their  redoubtable  swords,  all  draw  me 
on  as  though  I  were  still  a  little  girl."  In  these 
modern  days  of  success,  we  may  still  start  to 
learn  that  the  Parisian  publisher  of  Le  Grand 
Cyrus  made  100,000  crowns  b}'  that  work,  from 
the  appearance  of  its  first  volume  in  1649  to  its 
close  in  1653.  The  qualities  so  admirably 
summed  up  by  Madame  de  Sevigne  were  those 
which  appealed  most  directly  to  public  feeling  in 
France.  There  really  were  heroes  in  that  da}', 
the  age  of  chivalric  passions  had  not  passed, 
great  loves,  great  hates,  great  emotions  of  all 
kinds,  were  conceivable  and  within  personal 
experience.  When  La  Rochefoucauld  wrote  to 
Madame  de  Longueville  the  famous  lines  which 
may  be  thus  translated  ; 


84  Gossip  in  a  Library 

To  win  that  wonder  of  the  world, 

A  smile  from  her  bright  eyes, 
I  fought  my  King,  and  zunuld  have  hurled 

The  gods  out  of  their  s/^ies, 

he  was  breathing  the  very  atmosphere  of  the 
heroic  novels.  Their  extraordinary  artificial 
elevation  of  tone  vi^as  partly  the  spirit  of  the  age  ; 
it  was  also  partly  founded  on  a  new  literary 
ideal,  the  tone  of  Greek  romance.  No  book 
had  been  read  in  France  with  greater  avidity 
than  the  sixteenth-century  translation  of  the  old 
novel  Heliodorus;  and  in  the  Polexandres  and 
Ck'Ues  we  see  what  this  Greek  spirit  of  romance 
could  blossom  into  when  grafted  upon  the  stock 
of  Louis  XIV. 

The  vogue  of  these  heroic  novels  in  England 
has  been  misstated,  for  the  whole  subject  has  but 
met  with  neglect  from  successive  historians  of 
literature.  It  has  been  asserted  that  they  were 
not  read  in  England  until  after  the  Restoration. 
Nothing  is  further  from  the  truth.  Charles  I. 
read  Cassandra  in  prison,  while  we  find  Dorothy 
Osborne,  in  her  exquisite  letters  to  Sir  William 
Temple,   assiduously  studying  one  heroic  novel 


Pharamond  85 


after  another  through  the  central  years  of  Crom- 
well's rule.      She    reads  Le  Grand  Cyrus  while 
she   has   the  ague  ;   she   desires  Temple   to  tell 
her   "  which  amant  you  have   most  compassion 
for,  when   you   have   read  what    each    one   says 
for  himself."      She  and   the   King  read   them  in 
the    original,     but     soon    there    arrived   English 
translations    and    imitations.      These    began    to 
appear  a  good   deal   sooner  than   bibliographers 
have  been  prepared  to  admit.      Of  the  Astrc'e  of 
D'Urfe — which,    however,    is     properly    a    link 
between  the  Arcadia  of  Sidney  and  the  genuine 
heroic  novel — there  was   an   English  version  as 
early  as  1620.      But,  of  the  real   thing,  the  first 
importation   was   Polexandre^   in    1647,   followed 
by  Cassandra  and  Ibrahitn  in  1652,  Artamenes  in 
1653,    Cleopatra  in    1654—8,   and   Clc'lie  in  1656, 
all,    it   will   be  observed,    published  in   England 
before  the  close  of  the  Commonwealth. 

Dorothy  Osborne,  who  had  studied  the  French 
originals,  turned  up  her  nose  at  these  translations. 
She  says  that  they  were  "  so  disguised  that  I, 
who  am  their  old  acquaintance,  hardly  knew 
them,"      They  had,  moreover,  changed  their  form. 


86  Gossip  in  a  Library 

In  France  they  had  come  out  in  an  infinite 
number  of  small,  manageable  tomes.  For  in- 
stance, Calprenede  published  his  Cle'opatre  in 
twenty-three  volumes  ;  but  the  English  Cleopatra 
is  all  contained  in  one  monstrous  elephant 
folio.  ArtamcneSy  the  English  translation  of  Le 
Grand  Cyrus,  is  worse  still,  for  it  is  comprised 
in  five  such  folios.  Many  of  the  originals 
were  translated  over  and  over  again,  so  popular 
were  they ;  and  as  the  heroic  novels  of  any 
eminence  in  France  were  limited  in  number,  it 
would  be  easy,  by  patiently  hunting  the  trans- 
lations up  in  old  libraries,  to  make  a  pretty 
complete  list  of  them.  The  principal  heroic 
novels  were  eight  in  all  ;  of  these  there  is  but 
one,  the  Almahide  of  Mile,  de  Scudery,  which  we 
have  not  already  mentioned,  and  the  original 
publication  of  the  whole  school  is  confined  within 
less  than  thirty  years. 

The  best  master  in  a  bad  class  of  lumbering 
and  tiresome  fiction  was  the  author  of  the  book 
which  is  the  text  of  this  chapter.  La  Calprenede, 
whose  full  name  was  nothing  less  than  Gautier 
de  Costes  de  la  Calprenede,  was  a  Gascon  gentle- 


Pharamond  87 


man  of  the  Guards,  of  whose  personal  history 
the  most  notorious  fact  is  that  he  had  the  temerity 
to  marry  a  woman  who  had  already  buried  five 
husbands.  Some  historians  relate  that  she 
proceeded  to  poison  number  six,  but  this 
does  not  appear  to  be  certain,  while  it  does 
appear  that  Calprenede  lived  in  the  married  state 
for  fifteen  years,  a  longer  respite  than  the 
antecedents  of  madame  gave  him  any  right  to 
anticipate.  He  made  a  great  fame  with  his  two 
huge  Roman  novels,  Cassandra  and  Cleopatray 
and  then,  some  years  later,  he  produced  a  third, 
Pharamond,  which  was  taken  out  of  early  French 
history.  The  translator,  in  the  version  before 
us,  says  of  this  book  that  it  "  is  not  a  romance, 
but  a  history  adorned  with  some  excellent 
flourishes  of  language  and  loves,  in  which  you 
may  delightfully  trace  the  author's  learned  pen 
through  all  those  historians  who  wrote  of  the 
times  he  treats  of."  In  other  words,  while 
Gombreville — with  his  King  of  the  Canaries,  and 
his  Vanishing  Islands,  and  his  necromancers,  and 
his  dragons —  canters  through  pure  fairyland,  and 
while  Mile,  de  Scudery  elaborately  builds  up  a 


88  Gossip  in  a  Library 

romantic  picture  of  her  own  times  (in  Clelie,  for 
instance,  where  the  three  hundred  and  seventy 
several  characters  introduced  are  said  to  be  all 
acquaintances  of  the  author),  Calprenede  at- 
tempted to  produce  something  like  a  proper 
historical  novel,  introducing  invention,  but  em- 
broidering it  upon  some  sort  of  genuine  frame- 
work of  fact. 

To  describe  the  plot  of  Pharamond,  or  of  any 
other  heroic  novel,  would  be  a  desperate  task. 
The  great  number  of  personages  introduced  in 
pairs,  the  intrigues  of  each  couple  forming  a 
separate  thread  wound  into  the  complex  web  of 
the  plot,  is  alone  enough  to  make  any  following 
of  the  story  a  great  difficulty.  On  the  fly-leaf 
of  a  copy  of  Cleopatra  which  lies  before  me,  some 
dear  lady  of  the  seventeenth  century  has  very 
conscientiously  written  out  "  a  list  of  the  Pairs 
of  Lovers,"  and  there  are  thirteen  pairs.  Pliara- 
mond  begins  almost  in  the  same  manner  as  a 
novel  by  the  late  Mr.  G.  P.  R.  James  might. 
When  the  book  opens  we  discover  the  amorous 
Marcomine  and  the  valiant  Genebaud  sallying 
forth  along  the  bank  of  a  river  on  two  beautiful 


Pharaniond  89 


horses    of    the    best    jennet-race.       Throughout 
the  book  all  the  men  are  valiant,  all  the  ladies 
are   passionate   and   chaste.      The   heroes   enter 
the  lists  covered  with  rubies,  loosely  embroidered 
over  surcoats  of  gold  and  silk  tissue  ;  their  heads 
"  shine  with   gold,  enamel  and   precious   stones, 
with  the  hinder  part  covered  with   an  hundred 
plumes  of  different  colours."      They  are  mounted 
upon  horses  "  whose  whiteness  might  outvie  the 
purest    snow    upon    the    frozen    Alps."       They 
pierce  into  woodland  dells,  where  they  by  chance 
discover    renowned     princesses,     nonpareils     of 
beauty,   in  imminent  danger,  and   release   them. 
They  attack  hordes  of  deadly  pirates,  and  scatter 
their   bodies    along  the   shore  ;   and  yet,  for  z\\ 
their  warlike  fire  and   force,  they  are  as  gentle 
as   marmozets   in   a    lady's   boudoir.      They  are 
especially    admirable    in    the    putting    forth     of 
sentiments,  in  glozing  over  a  subtle  difficulty  in 
love,  in  tying  a  knot  of  silk  or  fastening  a   lock 
of  hair  to  their  bonnet.      They  will   steal  into   a 
cabinet  so  softly  that  a  lady  who  is  seated  there, 
in  a  reverie,  will  not  perceive   them  ;  they  are  so 
adroit  that  they  will  seize  a  paper  on  which  she 


9©  Gossip  in  a  Library 

has  sketched  a  couplet,  will  complete  it,  pass 
away,  and  she  not  know  whence  the  poetical 
miracle  has  come.  In  valour,  in  courtesy,  in 
magnificence  they  have  no  rival,  just  as  the 
ladies  whom  they  court  are  unique  in  beauty, 
in  purity,  in  passion,  and  in  self-denial.  Some- 
times they  correspond  at  immense  length ;  in 
Pharamond  the  letters  which  pass  between  the 
Princess  Hunnimonde  and  Prince  Balamir  would 
form  a  small  volume  by  themselves,  an  easy 
introduction  to  the  art  of  polite  letter-writing. 
Mile,  de  Scudery  actually  perceived  this,  and 
published  a  collection  of  model  correspondence 
which  was  culled  bodily  from  the  huge  store- 
house of  her  own  romances,  from  Le  Grand  Cyrus 
and  Cleiie.  These  interchanges  of  letters  were 
kept  up  by  the  severity  of  the  heroines.  It  was 
not  thought  proper  that  the  lady  should  yield 
her  hand  until  the  gentleman  had  exhausted  the 
resources  of  language,  and  had  spent  years  of 
amorous  labour  on  her  conquest.  When  Roger 
Boyle,  in  1654,  published  his  novel  o{  Parthenissa, 
Dorothy  Osborne  objected  to  the  ease  with  which 


Pharamond  9 1 


the  hero  succeeded  ;    she  complains  "  the  ladies 
are  all  so  kind  they  make  no  sport." 

This  particular  1662  translation  of  Pharamond 
appears  to  be  very  rare,  if  not  unique.  At  all 
events  I  find  it  in  none  of  the  bibliographies, 
nor  has  the  British  Museum  Library  a  copy  of  it. 
The  preface  is  signed  J.  D.,  and  the  version  is 
probably  therefore  from  the  pen  of  John  Davies, 
who  helped  Loveday  to  finish  his  enormous 
translation  of  Cleopatra  in  1665.  In  1677  there 
came  out  another  version  of  Pharamond,  by  John 
Phillips,  and  this  is  common  enough.  Some  day, 
perhaps,  these  elephantine  old  romances  may 
come  into  fashion  again,  and  we  may  obtain  a 
precise  list  of  them.  At  present  no  corner  of 
our  literary  history  is  more  thoroughly  neglected. 


* 


*  Since  this  was  written,  a  French  critic  of  eminence,  M.  Jusse- 
rand,  has  made  (in  The  English  0\o-veHn  the  Time  of  Shakespeare,  1890) 
a  delightful  contribution  to  this  portion  of  our  literary  history.  The 
earlier  part  of  the  last  chapter  of  that  volume  may  be  recommended 
to  all  readers  curious  about  the  vogue  of  the  heroic  novel.  But  M. 
Jussersnd  does  not  happen  to  mention  Pharamond,  nor  to  cover  the 
exact  ground  of  my  little  study. 


A  VOLUME  OF  OLD   PLAYS 


A  Volume  of  Old  Plays 

In  his  Ballad  of  the  Book-Hunter,  Mr.  Andrew 
Lang  describes  how,  in  breeches  baggy  at  the 
knees,  the  bibhophile  hunts  in  all  weathers : 

3^  dismal  stall  escapes  his  eye  ; 

He  turns  o'er  tojnes  of  low  degrees  ; 
There  soiled  romanticists  may  lie, 

Or  Restoration  comedies. 

That  speaks  straight  to  my  heart ;  for  of  all  my 
weaknesses  the  weakest  is  that  weakness  of 
mine  for  Restoration  plays.  From  1660  down 
to  1 7 10  nothing  in  dramatic  form  comes  amiss, 
and  I  have  great  schemes,  like  the  boards  on 
which  people  play  the  game  of  solitaire,  in 
which  space  is  left  for  every  drama  needed  to 
make  this  portion  of  my  library  complete.  It 
is  scarcely  literature,  I   confess ;   it  is  a  sport,   a 


g6  Gossip  in  a  Library 

long  game  which  I  shall  probably  be  still  playing 
at,  with  three  mouldy  old  tragedies  and  one  opera 
yet  needed  to  complete  my  set,  when  the  Reaper 
comes  to  carry  me  where  there  is  no  amassing 
nor  collecting.  It  would  hardly  be  credited  how 
much  pleasure  I  have  drained  out  of  these 
dramas  since  I  began  to  collect  them  judiciously 
fifteen  years  ago.  I  admit  only  first  editions  ;  but 
that  is  not  so  rigorous  as  it  sounds,  since  at 
least  half  of  the  poor  old  things  never  went  into 
a  second. 

As  long  as  it  is  Congreve  and  Dryden  and 
Otway,  of  course  it  is  literature,  and  of  a  very 
high  order;  even  Shadwell  and  Mrs.  Behn  and 
Southerne  are  literature ;  Settle  and  Ravenscroft 
may  pass  as  legitimate  literary  curiosity.  But 
there  are  depths  below  this  where  there  is  no 
excuse  but  sheer  collectaneomania.  Plays  by 
people  who  never  got  into  any  schedule  of 
English  letters  that  ever  was  planned,  dramatic 
nonentities,  stage  innocents  massacred  in  their 
cradles,  if  only  they  were  published  in  quarto  I 
find  room  for  them.  I  am  not  quite  so  pleased 
to  get  these  anonymities,   I   must  confess,  as  I 


A  Volume  of  Old   Plays         97 

am  to  get  a  clean,  tall  editio  princeps  of  The 
Orphan  or  of  Love  for  Love.  But  I  neither 
reject  nor  despise  them  ;  each  of  them  counts 
one  ;  each  serves  to  fill  a  place  on  my  solitaire 
board,  each  hurries  on  that  dreadful  possible 
time  coming  when  my  collection  shall  be 
complete,  and  I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  but 
break  my  collecting  rod  and  bury  it  fathoms 
deep. 

A  volume  has  just  come  in  which  happens  to 
have  nothing  in  it  but  those  forgotten  pla3'S, 
whose  very  names  are  unknown  to  the  historians 
of  literature.  First  comes  The  Roman  Em- 
press, by  William  Joyner,  printed  in  167 1, 
Joyner  was  an  Oxford  man,  a  fellow  of  Magdalen 
College.  The  little  that  has  been  recorded  about 
him  makes  one  wish  to  know  more.  He  became 
persuaded  of  the  truth  of  the  Catholic  faith,  and 
made  a  voluntary  resignation  of  his  Oxford 
fellowship.  He  had  to  do  something,  and  so  he 
wrote  this  traged}^  which  he  dedicated  to  Sir 
Charles  Sedley,  the  poet,  and  got  acted  at  the 
Theatre  Royal.  The  cast  contains  two  good 
actors'  names,  Mohun  and  Kynaston,  and  it  seems 

G 


98  Gossip  in  a  Library 

that  it  enj03'ed  a  considerable  success.  But 
doubtless  the  stage  was  too  rough  a  field  for  the 
gentle  Oxford  scholar.  He  retired  into  a  seques- 
tered country  village,  where  he  lingered  on  foi 
nearly  forty  years.  But  Joyner  was  none  of  the 
worst  of  poets.  Here  is  a  fragment  of  The 
Royal  Empress,  which  is  by  no  means  despic- 
ably versed  : 

O  thu  bright,  glorious  fnorning, 
Thou  Oriental  spring-time  of  the  day, 
Who  with  thy  mixed  vermilion  colours  paintest 
The  sky,  these  hills  and  plains  I  thou  dost  return 
In  thy  accustomed  manner,  but  with  thee 
Shall  ne'er  return  my  wotited  happiness. 

Through  his  Roman  tragedy  there  runs  a 
pensive  vein  of  sadness,  as  though  the  poet  were 
thinking  less  of  his  Aurelia  and  his  Valentius  than 
of  the  lost  common-room  and  the  arcades  of 
Magdalen  to  be  no  more  revisited. 

Our  next  play  is  a  worse  one,  but  much  more 
pretentious.  It  is  the  Usurper,  of  1668,  the 
first  of  four  dramas  published  by  the  Hon. 
Edward  Howard,  one  of  Dryden's  aristocratic 
brothers-in-law.      Edward  Howard  is  memorable 


A  Volume  of  Old  Plays         99 


for    a   couplet   constantly   quoted   from   his    epic 
poem  of  77!^  British  Princes : 

A  vest  as  admired  Vortiger  had  on, 

Which  from  a  naked  Tict  his  grandsire  won. 

Poor  Howard  has  received  the  laughter  of  genera- 
tions for  representing  Vortiger's  grandsire  as  thus 
having  stripped  one  who  was  bare  already.  But 
this  is  the  wickedness  of  some  ancient  wag, 
perhaps  of  Dryden  himself,  who  loved  to  laugh  at 
his  brother-in-law.  At  all  events,  the  first  (and, 
I  suppose,  only)  edition  of  The  British  Princes  is 
before  me  at  this  moment,  and  the  second  of 
these  lines  certainly  runs  : 

Which  from  this  island's  foes  his  grandsire  won. 

Thus  do  the  critics,  leaping  one  after  another, 
like  so  many  sheep,  follow  the  same  wrong  track, 
in  this  case  for  a  couple  of  centuries.  The 
Usurper  is  a  tragedy,  in  which  a  Parasite,  "  a 
most  perfidious  villain,"  plays  a  mysterious 
part.  He  is  led  off  to  be  hanged  at  last,  much 
to  the  reader's  satisfaction,  who  murm.urs,  in  the 
words  of  Mr.  R.  L.  Stevenson,  "  There's  an  end 
of  that." 


loo  Gossip  in  a  Library 

But  though  the  Usurper  is  dull,  we  reach 
a  lower  depth  and  muddier  lees  of  wit  in  the 
Carnivaly  a  comedy  by  Major  Thomas  Porter,  of 
1664.  It  is  odd,  however,  that  the  very  worst 
production,  if  it  be  more  than  two  hundred 
years  old,  is  sure  to  contain  some  little  thing 
interesting  to  a  modern  student.  The  Carnival 
has  one  such  peculiarity.  Whenever  any  of 
the  characters  is  left  alone  on  the  stage,  he  begins 
to  soliloquise  in  the  stanza  of  Gray's  Churchyard 
Elegy.  This  is  a  very  quaint  innovation,  and 
one  which  possibly  occurred  to  brave  Major  Porter 
in  one  of  the  marches  and  counter-marches  of  the 
Civil  War. 

But  the  man  who  perseveres  is  always 
rewarded,  and  the  fourth  play  in  our  volume 
really  repays  us  for  pushing  on  so  far.  Here  is 
a  piece  of  wild  and  ghostly  poetry  that  is  well 
worth  digging  out  of  the  Duke  of  Newcastle's 
Humorous  Lovers : 

t/fi  curfew -time,  and  at  the  dead  of  night, 
I  will  appear,  thy  conscious  soul  to  fright, 
{Make  signs,  and  beckon  thee  my  ghost  to  follow 
To  sadder  groves,  and  churchyards,  where  we^ll  hollo 


A  Volume  of  Old  Plays        loi 


To  darker  caves  a?!d  solitary  woods, 

7o  fatal  whirlpools  and  consuming  floods  ; 

ril  tempt  thee  to  pass  by  the  unlucky  ewe, 

Blasted  with  cursed  droppings  of  mildew  ; 

Under  an  oak,  that  ne'er  bore  leaf,  my  moans 

Shall  there  be  told  thee  by  the  mandrake's  groans  { 

The  winds  shall  sighing  tell  thy  cruelty, 

,And  how  thy  want  of  love  did  murder  me; 

t^nd  when  the  coc\  shall  crow,  and  day  grow  near, 

Then  in  a  flash  offlre  Fll  disappear. 

But  I  cannot  persuade  myself  that  his  Grace 
of  Newcastle  wrote  those  lines  himself.  Pub- 
lished in  1677,  they  were  as  much  of  a  portent 
as  a  man  in  trunk  hose  and  a  slashed  doublet. 
The  Duke  had  died  a  month  or  two  before  the 
pl#y  was  published ;  he  had  grown  to  be,  in 
extreme  old  age,  the  most  venerable  figure  of 
the  Restoration,  and  it  is  possible  that  the 
Humorous  Lovers  may  have  been  a  relic  of  his 
Jacobean  youth.  He  might  very  well  have 
written  it,  so  old  was  he,  in  Shakespeare's  life- 
time. But  the  Duke  of  Newcastle  was  never  a 
very  skilful  poet,  and  it  is  known  that  he  paid 
James  Shirley  to  help  him  with  his  plays.  I 
feel  convinced  that  if  all  men  had  their  own,  the 


102  Gossip  in  a  Library 

invocation  I  have  just  quoted  v^^ould  fly  back 
into  the  works  of  Shirley,  and  so,  no  doubt, 
v^ould  the  following  quaintest  bit  of  conceited 
fancy.  It  is  part  of  a  fantastical  feast  which 
Boldman  promises  to  the  Widow  of  his  heart : 

The  twinkling  stars  shall  to  our  zvish 
^lakf  a  grand  salad  in  a  dish  ; 
Snow  for  cur  sugar  shall  not  fail, 
Fine  candied  ice,  comfts  of  hail; 
For  oranges,  gilt  clouds  zee' II  squeexe  ; 
The  S^ilky  Way  we'll  turn  to  cheese  ; 
Sunbeams  we'' II  catch,  shall  stand  in  place 
Of  hotter  ginger,  nutmegs,  mace  ; 
Sun-setting  clouds  for  roses  szveet, 
And  violet  sJ^ies  strewed  for  our  feet ; 
The  spheres  shall  for  our  music  play. 
While  spirits  dance  the  time  away. 

This  is  extravagant  enough,  but  surel}'  very 
picturesque.  I  seem  to  see  the  supper-room  of 
some  Elizabethan  castle  after  an  elaborate  royal 
masque.  The  Duchess,  who  has  been  dancing^ 
richly  attired  in  sky-coloured  silk,  with  gilt  wings 
on  her  shoulders,  is  attended  to  the  refreshments 
by  the   florid   Duke,  personating   the  river  Tha- 


A  Volume  of  Old  Plays        103 

mesis,  with  a  robe  of  cloth  of  silver  around 
him.  It  seems  the  sort  of  thing  a  poet  so 
habited  might  be  expected  to  say  between  a 
galliard  and  a  coranto. 

At  first  sight  we  seem  to  have  reached  a 
really  good  rhetorical  play  when  we  arrive  at 
Bancroft's  tragedy  of  Sertorius,  published  in 
1679,  and  so  it  would  be  if  Dryden  and  Lee  had 
never  written.  But  its  seeming  excellence  is 
greatly  lessened  when  we  recollect  that  All 
for  Love  and  Mithridatcs,  two  great  poems 
which  are  almost  good  plays,  appeared  in  1678, 
and  inspired  our  poor  imitative  Bancroft.  Ser- 
torius is  written  in  smooth  and  well-sustained 
blank  verse,  which  is,  however,  nowhere  quite 
good  enough  to  be  quoted.  I  suspect  that  John 
Bancroft  was  a  very  interesting  man.  He  was 
a  surgeon,  and  his  practice  lay  particularly  in 
the  theatrical  and  literary  world.  He  acquired, 
it  is  said,  from  his  patients  "  a  passion  for  the 
Muses,"  and  an  inclination  to  follow  in  the  steps 
of  those  whom  he  cured  or  killed.  The  dramatist 
Ravenscroft  wrote  an  epilogue  to  Serlorius,  in 
which  he  says  that — 


104  Gossip  in  a  Library 

Our  Toet  to  learned  critics  does  stilmit, 
But  scorns  those  little  vermin  of  the  pit, 
Who  noise  and  nonsense  vent  instead  of  zvit, 

and  no  doubt  Bancroft  had  aims  more  professional 
than  the  professional  playwrights  themselves.  He 
wrote  three  plays,  and  lived  until  1696.  One 
fancies  the  discreet  and  fervent  poet-surgeon, 
laden  with  his  secrets  and  his  confidences.  Why 
did  he  not  write  memoirs,  and  tell  us  what  it 
was  that  drove  Nat  Lee  mad,  and  how  Otway 
really  died,  and  what  Dryden's  habits  were  ? 
Why  did  he  not  purvey  magnificent  indiscretions 
whispered  under  the  great  periwig  of  Wycherley, 
or  repeat  that  splendid  story  about  Etheredge 
and  my  Lord  Mulgrave  ?  Alas  !  we  would  have 
given  a  wilderness  of  Sertormses  for  such  a 
series  of  memoirs. 

The  volume  of  plays  is  not  exhausted.  Here 
is  Weston's  Amazon  Queen,  of  1667,  written 
in  pompous  rhymed  heroics ;  here  is  The  For- 
tune Hunters,  a  comedy  of  1689,  the  only  play 
of  that  brave  fellow,  James  Carlisle,  who,  being 
brought    up   an   actor,    preferred    "  to   be   rather 


A  Volume  of  Old  Plays        105 

than  to  personate  a  hero,"  and  died  in  gallant  fight 
for  Wilham  of  Orange,  at  the  battle  of  Aughrim  ; 
here  is  Mr.  Anthony,  a  comedy  written  by  the 
Right  Honourable  the  Earl  of  Orrery,  and  printed 
in  1690,  a  piece  never  republished  among  the 
Earl's  wo:ks,  and  therefore  of  some  special 
interest.  But  I  am  sure  my  reader  is  exhausted, 
e\cn  if  the  volume  is  not,  and  I  spare  him  any 
further  examination  of  these  obscure  dramas, 
lest  he  should  sa}-,  as  Peter  Pindar  did  of  Dr. 
Johnson,  that  I 

Set  wheels  on  wheels  in  motion — such  a  clatter  ! 
To  force  up  one  poor  nipper  kin  of  water  ; 
'Bid  ocean  labour  with  tremendous  roar 
To  heave  a  cockle-shell  upon  the  shore, 

I  will  close,  therefore,  with  one  suggestion  to  the 
special  student  of  comparative  literature — namely, 
that  it  is  sometimes  in  the  minor  writings  of  an 
age,  where  the  bias  of  personal  genius  is  not 
strongly  felt,  that  the  general  phenomena  of  the 
time  are  most  clearly  observed.  The  Amazon 
Queen  is  in  rhymed  verse,  because  in  1667 
this    was     the    fashionable     form     for    dramatic 


io6  Gossip  in  a  Library 

poetry  ;  Sertoritts  is  in  regular  and  somewhat  re- 
strained blank  verse,  because  in  1679  the  fashion 
had  once  more  chopped  round.  What  in  Dryden 
or  Otway  might  be  the  force  of  originality  may 
be  safely  taken  as  the  drift  of  the  age  in  these 
imitative  and  floating  nonentities. 


A  CENSOR   OF    POETS 


A  Censor  of  Poets 

The  Lives  of  the  Most  Famous  Engmsh  Poets,  or  the  Honour  of 
Tarnassus  ;  in  a  lirkf  Essay  of  the  }Viji\s  and  Writings  of  abo-ve 
Tivo  Hundred  of  them,  font  the  Time  of  fy.  JViUiam  the  Conqueror,  to 
the  %tign  of  His  T resent  <^Ljjesty  lying  James  II.  Written  by 
William  Wmstanley.  Licensed  June  l6,  1686.  London,  Printed 
by  H.  Clark,  for  Samuel  zManshif  at  the  Sign  of  the  'Black  'Bull  in 
Cornhil,  1687. 

A  MAXIM  which  it  would  be  well  for  ambitious 
critics  to  chalk  up  on  the  walls  of  their  work- 
shops is  this  :  never  mind  whom  you  praise,  but 
be  very  careful  whom  you  blame.  Most  critical 
reputations  have  struck  on  the  reef  of  some  poet 
or  novelist  whom  the  great  censor,  in  his  proud 
old  age,  has  thought  he  might  disdain  with  im- 
punity. Who  recollects  the  admirable  treatises 
of  John  Dennis,  acute,  learned,  sympathetic  ? 
To  us  he  is  merely  the  sore  old  bear,  who  was 
too  stupid  to  perceive  the  genius  of  Pope,      The 


1 1  o  Gossip  in  a  Library 

grace  and  discrimination,  lavished  by  Francis 
Jeffrey  over  a  tliousand  pages,  weigh  like  a 
feather  beside  one  sentence  about  Wordsworth's 
Excursion,  and  one  tasteless  sneer  at  Charles 
Lamb.  Even  the  mighty  figure  of  Sainte  Beuve 
totters  at  the  whisper  of  the  name  Balzac. 
Even  Matthew  Arnold  would  have  been  wiser  to 
have  taken  counsel  with  himself  before  he 
laughed  at  Shelley.  And  the  very  unimportant 
but  sincere  and  interesting  writer,  whose  book 
occupies  us  to-day,  is  in  some  respects  the 
crowning  instance  of  the  rule.  His  literary 
existence  has  been  sacrificed  by  a  single  out- 
burst of  petulant  criticism,  which  was  not  even 
literary,  but  purely  political. 

The  only  passage  of  Winstanley's  Lives  of  the 
English  Poets  which  is  ever  quoted  is  the  para- 
graph which  refers  to  Milton,  who,  when  it 
appeared,  had  been  dead  thirteen  years.  It  runs 
thus  : 

'^John  Milton  was  one  whose  natural  parts 
might  deservedly  give  him  a  place  amongst  the 
principal  of  our  English  Poets,  having  written  two 
Heroick  Poems  and  a  Tragedy,  namely  Paradice 


A  Censor  of  Poets  1 1 1 

Lost,  Paradice  Regained,  and  Sampson  Agonista. 
But  his  Fame  is  gone  out  like  a  Candle  in  a 
Snuflf,  and  his  Memory  will  always  stink,  which 
might  have  ever  lived  in  honourable  Repute, 
had  not  he  been  a  notorious  Traytor,  and  most 
impiously  and  villanously  bely'd  that  blessed 
Martyr,  King  Charles  the  First." 

Mr.  Winstanley  does  not  leave  us  in  any 
doubt  of  his  own  political  bias,  and  his  mode  is 
simply  infamous.  It  is  the  roughest  and  most 
unpardonable  expression  now  extant  of  the  pre- 
judice generally  felt  against  Milton  in  London, 
after  the  Restoration — a  prejudice  which  even 
Dryden,  who  in  his  heart  knew  better,  could  not 
wholly  resist.  This  one  sentence  is  all  that 
most  readers  of  seventeenth-century  literature 
know  about  Winstanley,  and  it  is  not  sur- 
prising that  it  has  created  an  objection  to  him. 
I  forget  who  it  was,  among  the  critics  of 
the  beginning  of  this  century,  who  was  accus- 
tomed to  buy  copies  of  the  Lives  of  the  English 
Poets  wherever  he  could  pick  them  up,  and  burn 
them,  in  piety  to  the  angry  spirit  of  Milton. 
This  was  certainly  more   sensible  conduct  than 


1 1 2  Gossip  in  a  Library 

that  of  the  Italian  nobleman,  who  used  to  build 
MSS.  of  Martial  into  little  pyres,  and  consume 
them  with  spices,  to  express  his  admiration  of 
Catullus.  But  no  one  can  wonder  that  the 
world  has  not  forgiven  Winstanley  for  that 
atrocious  phrase  about  Milton's  fame  having 
"  gone  out  like  a  candle  in  a  snuff,  so  that  his 
memory  will  always  stink."  No,  Mr.  William 
Winstanley,  it  is  your  own  name  that — smells  so 
very  unpleasantly. 

Yet  I  am  paradoxical  enough  to  believe  that 
poor  Winstanley  never  wrote  these  sentences 
which  have  destroyed  his  fame.  To  support  my 
theory,  it  is  needful  to  recount  the  very  scanty 
knowledge  we  possess  of  his  life.  He  is  said 
to  have  been  a  barber,  and  to  have  risen  by  his 
exertions  with  the  razor ;  but,  against  that 
legend,  is  to  be  posed  the  fact  that  on  the  titles 
of  his  earliest  books,  dedicated  to  public  men 
who  must  have  known,  he  styles  himself  "  Gent." 
The  dates  of  his  birth  and  death  are,  I  believe, 
not  even  conjectured.  But  the  Lives  of  the 
English  Poets  is  the  latest  of  his  books,  and  the 
earliest    was    published   in    1660.       This  is  his 


A  Censor  of  Poets  1 1 3 


England's  Worthies,  a  group  of  what  we  should 
call  to-day  "  biographical  studies."  The  longest 
and  the  most  interesting  of  these  is  one  on 
Oliver  Cromwell,  the  tone  of  which  is  almost 
grossly  laudatory,  akhough  published  at  the  very 
moment  of  Restoration.  Now,  it  is  a  curious, 
and,  at  first  sight,  a  very  disgraceful  fact,  that 
in  1684,  when  the  book  of  England's  Worthies 
was  re-issucd,  all  the  praise  of  republicans  was 
cancelled,  and  abuse  substituted  for  it.  And 
then,  in  1687,  came  the  Lives  of  the  English  Poets, 
with  its  horrible  attack  on  Milton.  The  character 
of  Winstanley  seems  to  be  as  base  as  any  on 
literary  record.  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion, 
however,  that  Winstanley  was  guilty,  neither  of 
retracting  what  he  said  about  Cromwell,  nor  of 
slandering  Milton.  The  black  woman  excused 
her  husband  for  not  answering  the  bell,  "  'Cause 
he's  dead,"  and  the  excuse  was  considered  valid. 
I  believe  that  when  these  interpolations  were 
made,  poor  Winstanley  was  dead. 

Any  one  who  reads  the  Lives  of  the  English 
Poets  carefull}'',  will  be  impressed  with  two  facts  : 
first,  that  the  author  had   an   acqua'ntance  with 

H 


114  Gossip  In  a  Library 

■  ■  -         i>  ■ 

the  early  versifiers  of  Great  Britain,  which  was 
quite  extraordinary,  and  which  can  hardly  be 
found  at  fault  by  our  modern  knowledge ;  while, 
secondly,  that  he  shows  a  sudden  and  unaccount- 
able ignorance  of  his  immediate  contemporaries 
of  the  younger  school.  Except  Campion,  who  is 
a  discovery  of  our  own  da}^,  not  a  single  Eliza- 
bethan or  Jacobean  rhymster  of  the  second  or 
third  rank  escapes  his  notice.  Among  the 
writers  of  a  still  later  generation,  I  miss  no 
names  save  those  of  Vaughan,  who  was  very 
obscure  in  his  own  lifetime,  and  Marvell,  who 
would  be  excluded  by  the  same  prejudice  which 
mocked  at  Milton.  But  among  Poets  of  the 
Restoration,  men  and  women  who  were  in  their 
full  fame  in  1687,  the  omissions  are  quite  start- 
ling. Not  a  word  is  here  about  Otway,  Lee,  or 
Crowne ;  Butler  is  not  mentioned,  nor  the 
Matchless  Orinda,  nor  Roscommon,  nor  Sir 
Charles  Sedley.  A  careful  examination  of  the 
dates  of  works  which  Winstanley  refers  to,  pro- 
duces a  curious  result.  There  is  not  mentioned, 
so  far  as  I  can  trace,  a  single  poem  or  play 
which  was  pubHshed  later   than    1675,  although 


A  Censor  of  Poets  1 1 5 

the  date  on  the  title-page  of  the  Lives  of  the 
English  Pods  is  1687.  Rather  an  elaborate  list 
of  Dryden's  publications  is  given,  but  it  stops  at 
Amb^yna  (1673).  On  this  I  think  it  is  not  too 
bold  to  build  a  theory,  which  may  last  until 
Winstanley's  entry  of  burial  is  discovered  in 
some  country  church,  that  he  died  soon  after 
1675.  If  this  were  the  case,  the  recantations  in 
his  English  Worthies  of  16S4  would  be  so  many 
posthumous  outrages  committed  on  his  blameless 
tomb,  and  the  infamous  sentence  about  Milton 
may  well  have  been  foisted  into  a  posthumous 
volume  by  the  same  wicked  hand.  If  we  could 
think  that  Samuel  Manship,  at  the  Sign  of  the 
Black  Bull,  was  the  obsequious  rogue  who  did  it, 
that  would  be  one  more  sin  to  be  numbered 
against  the  sad  race  of  publishers. 

In  studying  old  books  about  the  poets,  it 
sometimes  occurs  to  us  to  wonder  whether  the 
readers  of  two  hundred  years  ago  appreciated 
the  same  qualities  in  good  verse  which  are  now 
admired.  Did  the  ringing  and  romantic  cadences 
of  Shakespeare  affect  their  senses  as  they  do 
ours  ?     We  know  that  they  praised  Carew  and 


1 1 6  Gossip  in  a  Library 

Suckling,  but  was  it  '•  Ask  me  no  more  where 
June  bestows,"  and  "  Hast  thou  seen  the  down 
in  the  air,"  which  gave  them  pleasure?  It 
would  sometimes  seem,  from  the  phrases  they 
use  and  the  passages  they  quote,  that  if  poetry 
was  the  same  two  centuries  ago,  its  readers  had 
very  different  ears  from  ours.  Of  Herrick 
Winstanley  says  that  he  was  "  one  of  the 
Scholars  of  Apollo  of  the  middle  Form,  yet 
eomething  above  George  Withers,  in  a  pretty 
Flowry  and  Pastoral  Gale  of  Fancy,  in  a  vernal 
Prospect  of  some  Hill,  Cave,  Rock,  or  Fountain ; 
v/hich  but  for  the  interruption  of  other  trivial 
Passages,  might  have  made  up  none  of  the 
worst  Poetick  Landskips,"  and  then  he  quotes,  as 
a  sample  of  Herrick,  a  tiresome  "  epigram,"  in 
the  poet's  worst  style.  This  is  not  delicate  or 
acute  criticism,  as  we  judge  nowadays  ;  but  I 
would  give  a  good  deal  to  meet  Winstanley  at  a 
cofiee-house,  and  go  through  the  Hespcrides  with 
him  over  a  dish  of  chocolate.  It  would  be  won- 
derfully interesting  to  discover  which  passages 
in  Herrick  really  struck  the  contemporary  mind 
as  "  flov.ery,"  and  which  as  "  trivial,"      But  this 


A  Censor  of  Poets  117 

is  just  what  all  seventeenth-century  criticism, 
even  Dryden's,  omits  to  explain  to  us.  The 
personal  note  in  poetical  criticism,  the  appeal  to 
definite  taste,  to  the  experience  of  eye  and  ear, 
is  not  met  with,  even  in  suggestion,  until  we 
reach  the  pamphlets  of  John  Dennis. 

The  particular  copy  of  Winstanley  which  lies 
before  me  is  a  valuable  one  ;  I  owe  it  to  the 
generosity  of  a  friend  in  Chicago,  who  hoards 
rare  books,  and  yet  has  the  greatness  of  soul 
sometimes  to  part  with  them.  It  is  interleaved, 
and  the  blank  pages  are  rather  densely  inscribed 
with  notes  in  the  handwriting  of  Dr.  Thomas 
Percy,  the  poetical  Bishop  of  Dromore.  From 
his  hands  it  passed  into  those  of  John  Bowyer 
Nichols,  the  antiquary.  Percy's  notes  are  little 
more  than  references  to  other  authorities,  memo- 
randa for  one  of  his  own  useful  compilations,  yet 
it  is  pleasant  to  have  even  a  slight  personal  relic 
of  so  admirable  a  man.  Mr.  Riviere  has  bound 
the  volume  for  me,  and  I  suppose  that  poor  re- 
jected Winstanley  exists  nowhere  else  in  so 
elegant  a  shape. 


LADY    WINCHILSEA'S    POEMS 


Lady  Winchilsea's  Poems 

Miscellany  Poems.     fVuh  Tivo  Tlays.     'By  ^Ardclla. 

1  never  list  presume  to   Tarnass  hill, 
'But  piping    Iviv,   i?i  shade  of  loivly  gro'vt, 
I  play  to  please  myself,  albeit  ill. 

Spemer  Shtp.  Cal.  June, 
c^anuscript  in  folio.      Circa  1696. 

i  HERE  is  no  other  book  in  my  library  to 
which  I  feel  that  I  possess  so  clear  a  presump- 
tive right  as  to  this  manuscript.  Other  rare 
volumes  would  more  fitly  adorn  the  collections 
of  bibliophiles  more  learned,  more  ingenious, 
more  elegant,  than  I.  But  if  there  is  any  person 
in  the  two  hemisphel-es  who  has  so  fair  a  claim 
upon  the  ghost  of  Ardelia,  let  that  man  stand 
forth.  Ardelia  was  uncultivated  and  unsung 
v,'hen  I  constituted  myself,  years  ago,  her 
champion.  With  the  exception  of  a  noble  frag- 
ment  of    laudation    from    Wordsworth,    no  dis- 


122  Gossip  in  a  Library 

criminating  praise  from  any  modern  critic  had 
stirred  the  ashes  of  her  name.  I  made  it  my 
business  to  insist  in  many  places  on  the  talent 
of  Ardelia.  I  gave  her,  for  the  first  time,  a 
chance  of  challenging  public  taste,  by  presenting  to 
readers  of  Mr.  Ward's  English  Pods  many  pages 
of  extracts  from  her  writings  ;  and  I  hope  it  is 
not  indiscreet  to  say  that,  when  the  third  volume 
of  that  compilation  appeared,  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold 
told  me  that  its  greatest  revelation  to  himself 
had  been  the  singular  merit  of  this  lady.  Such 
being  my  claim  on  the  consideration  of  Ardelia, 
no  one  will,  I  think,  grudge  me  the  possession 
of  this  unknown  volume  of  her  works  in  manu- 
script. It  came  into  my  hands  by  a  strange 
coincidence.  In  his  brief  life  of  Anne  Finch, 
Countess  of  Winchilsea — for  that  was  Ardelia's 
real  name — Theophilus  Cibber  says,  "  A  great 
number  of  our  authoress'  poems  still  continue 
unpublished,  in  the  hands  of  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Creake."  In  1884  I  saw  advertised,  in  an 
obscure  book-list,  a  folio  volume  of  old  manu- 
script poetry.  Something  excited  my  curiosity, 
and  I  sent  for  it.      It  proved  to  be  a  vast  collcc- 


Lady  Winchilsea's  Poems       123 

tion  of  the  poems  of  my  beloved  Anne  Finch.  I 
immediately  communicated  with  the  bookseller, 
and  asked  him  whence  it  came.  He  replied  that 
it  had  been  sold,  with  furniture,  pictures  and 
books,  at  the  dispersing  of  the  effects  of  a  family 
of  the  name  of  Creake.  Thank  you,  divine  Ar- 
delia  !  It  was  well  done  ;  it  was  worthy  of  you. 
Anne  Finch,  Countess  of  Winchilsea,  is  not  a 
commanding  figure  in  literary  history,  but  she  is 
an  isolated  and  a  well-defined  one.  She  is  what 
one  of  the  precursors  of  Shakespeare  calls  "a 
diminutive  excelsitude.''  She  was  entirely  out 
of  sympathy  with  her  age,  and  her  talent  was 
hampered  and  suppressed  by  her  conditions. 
She  was  the  solitary  writer  of  actively  developed 
romantic  tastes  between  Marvell  and  Gray,  and 
she  was  not  strong  enough  to  create  an  atmo- 
sphere for  herself  within  the  vacuum  in  which 
she  languished.  The  facts  of  her  life  are  ex- 
tremely scanty,  although  they  may  now  be  con- 
siderably augmented  by  the  help  of  my  folio. 
She  was  born  about  1660,  the  daughter  of  a 
Hampshire  baronet.  She  was  maid  of  honour  to 
Mary  of  Modena,  Duchess  of  York,  and  at  Court 


124  Gossip  in  a  Library 


she  met  Heneage  Finch,  who  was  gentleman 
of  the  bed-chamber  to  the  Duke.  They  married 
in  1685,  probably  on  the  occasion  of  the  en- 
thronement of  their  master  and  mistress,  and 
when  the  crash  came  in  1688,  they  fled  together 
to  the  retirement  of  Eastwell  Park.  They  in- 
habited this  mansion  for  the  rest  of  their  lives, 
although  it  was  not  until  the  death  of  his  nephew, 
in  17 1 2,  that  Heneage  Finch  became  fourth  Earl 
of  Winchelsea.  In  17 13  Anne  was  at  last  per- 
suaded to  publish  a  selection  of  her  poems,  and 
in  1720  she  died.  The  Earl  survived  her  until 
1726. 

My  manuscript  was  written,  I  think,  in  or 
about  the  year  1696 — that  is  to  say,  when  Mrs. 
Finch  was  in  retirement  from  the  Court.  She 
has  adopted  the  habit  of  writing, 

'Betrayed  by  solitude  to  try 
t£musements,  which  the  prosperous  fy. 

But  her  exile  from  the  world  gives  her  no 
disquietude.  It  seems  almost  an  answer  to  her 
prayer.  Years  before,  when  she  was  at  the 
centre  of  fashion  in.  the  Court  of  James  II.,  she 


Lady  Winchilsea's  Poems       125 


had   written   in  an   epistle  to   the   Countess   of 
Thanet : 

Qive  me,  O  indulge7it  Fate, 
(^h'e  me  yet,  before  I  die, 
A  sweet,  but  absolute  retreat, 
'3Iongst  paths  so  lost,  and  trees  so  high. 
That  the  world  may  Tie'er  invade. 
Through  such  windings  and  such  shade, 
SWy  unshaken  liberty. 

This  was  a  sentiment  ra'-ely  expressed  and 
still  more  rarely  felt  by  English  ladies  at  the 
close  of  the  seventeenth  century.  What  their 
real  opinion  usually  was  is  clothed  in  crude  and 
ready  language  by  the  heroines  of  Wycherley  and 
Shadwell.  Like  Lucia,  in  the  comedy  of  Epsom 
Wells,  to  live  out  of  London  was  to  live  in  a 
wilderness,  with  bears  and  wolves  as  one's  com- 
panions. Alone  in  that  age  Anne  Finch  truly 
loved  the  country,  for  its  own  sake,  and  had  an 
eye  to  obrerve  its  features. 

She  had  one  trouble,  constitutional  low  spirits  : 
she  was  a  terrible  sufferer  from  what  was  then 
known  as  *'  The  Spleen."  She  wrote  a  long 
pindaric  Ode  on   the   Spleen,  which  was  printed 


126  Gossip  in  a  Library 


in  a  miscellany  in  1701,  and  was  her  first  intro- 
duction to  the  public.  She  talks  much  about  her 
melancholy  in  her  verses,  but  with  singular  good 
sense,  she  recognised  that  it  was  physical,  and 
she  tried  various  nostrums.  Neither  tea,  nor 
coffee,  nor  ratafia  did  her  the  least  service  : — 

In  vain  to  chase  thee  every  art  I  try^ 

In  vain  all  remedies  apply, 

In  vain  the  Indian  leaf  infuse, 

Or  the  parch' d  eastern  berr-^  bruise. 

Or  pass,  in  vain,  those  bounds,  and  nobler  liquors  use. 

It  threw  a  cloud  over   her  waking  hours,  and 
took  sleep  from  her  eyelids  at  night : — 

Hozv  shall  I  woo  thee,  gentle  %est. 
To  a  sad  mind,  with  cares  oppress  d  ? 
'By  what  soft  means  shall  I  invite 
Thy  powers  into  my  soul  to-night  ? 
Yet,  gentle  Sleep,  if  thou  wilt  come. 
Such  darkness  shall  prepare  the  room 
Jls  thy  own  palace  overspreads, — 
Thy  palace  stored  with  peaceful  beds, — • 
tAnd  Silence,  too,  shall  on  thee  wait 
Deep,  as  in  the  Turkish  State  ; 
Whilst,  still  as  death,  I  will  be  founds 
tMy  arms  by  one  anotl  cr  bound, 


Lady  Winchilsea's  Poems       127 

tAnd  my  dull  Imbs  so  closed  shall  be 
Jls  if  already  seaPd  by  thee. 

She  tried  a  course  of  the  waters  at  Tunbridge 
Wells,  but  without  avail.  When  the  abhorred  fit 
came  on,  the  world  was  darkened  to  her.  Only 
two  things  could  relieve  her — the  soothing  influ- 
ence of  solitude  with  nature  and  the  Muses,  or 
the  sympathetic  presence  of  her  husband.  She 
disdained  the  little  feminine  arts  of  her  age  : — 


^o"- 


(^or  will  in  fading  sil^s  compose 

Faintly  tie  inimitable  rose, 

Fill  up  an  ill-drawn  bird,  or  paint  on  glass 

The  Sovereigyis  blurrd  and  indistinguisled  face, 

The  threatening  angel  and  the  speaking  ass. 

But  slie  will  wander  at  sundown  through  the 
exquis'te  woods  of  Eastwell,  and  will  watch  the 
owlets  in  their  downy  nest  or  the  nightingale 
silhouetted  against  the  fading  sky.  Then  her 
constitutional  depression  passes,  and  she  is  able 
once  more  to  be  happy  : — 

Our  sighs  are  then  but  vernal  air, 
Hut  April-drops  our  tears, 

as  she  says  in   delicious   numbers  that   might  be 


3  28  Gossip  in  a  Library 

Wordsworth's  own.  In  these  delightful  moments, 
released  from  the  burden  of  her  tyrant  malady, 
her  eyes  seem  to  have  been  touched  with  the 
herb  euphrasy,  and  she  has  the  gift,  denied  to 
the  rest  of  her  generation,  of  seeing  nature  and 
describing  what  she  sees.  In  these  moods,  this 
contemporary  of  Dryden  and  Congreve  gives  us 
such  accurate  transcripts  of  country  life  as  the 
following  : — 

When  the  loos' d  horse  now,  as  his  pasture  leads. 
Comes  slowly  grazing  through  the  adjoining  meadsy 
Whose  stealing  pace  and  lengthened  shade  wefear^ 
Till  torn-up  forage  in  his  teeth  we  hear  ; 
When  nibbling  sheep  at  large  pursue  their  food, 
K^nd  unmolested  kine  rechew  the  cud  : 
When  curlews  cry  beneath  the  village-walls, 
And  to  her  straggling  brood  the  partridge  calls. 

In  Eastw^ell  Park  there  was  a  hill,  called  Par- 
nassus, to  which  she  was  particularly  partial,  and 
to  this  she  commonly  turned  her  footsteps. 

Melancholy  as  she  was,  however,  and  devoted  to 
reverie,  she  could  be  gay  enough  upon  occasion, 
and  her  sprightly  poems  have  a  genuine  sparkle. 
Here     is     an     anacreontic — written     "  for     my 


Lady  Winchilsea's  Poems       129 

brother  Leslie   Finch  " — which  has  never  before 
been  printed  : — 

From  the  Park,  and  the  Play, 

t/fnd  Whitehall,  cotne  away 
To  the  Tunch-bowl  by  far  more  inviting  ; 

To  the  fops  and  the  beaux 

Leave  those  dull  empty  shows, 
t^nd  see  here  what  is  truly  delighting. 

The  half  globe  'tis  in  figure, 

Jlnd  would  it  were  bigger, 
Yet  here's  the  whole  universe  floating  ; 

Here's  titles  and  places, 

%ich  lands,  and  fair  faces, 
t/lnd  all  that  is  worthy  our  doting. 

'  Twas  a  world  lil^e  to  this 

The  hot  Grecian  did  miss. 
Of  whom  histories  keep  such  a  pother ; 

To  the  bottom  he  sunk, 

^nd  when  he  had  drun\, 
(jrew  maudlin,  and  wept  for  another. 

At  another  point,  Anne  Finch  bore  very  little 
likeness  to  her  noisy  sisterhood  of  fashion.  In 
an  age  when  it  was  the  height  of  ill-breeding  for 
a  wife  to  admit  a  partiality  for  her  husband, 
Ardelia  was  not  ashamed  to  confess  that  Daphnis 

I 


I  30  Gossip  in  a  Library 

— for  so  she  styled  th2  excellent  Heneage  Finch 
— absorbed  every  corner  of  her  mind  that  was  not 
occupied  by  the  Muses.  It  is  a  real  pleasure  to 
transcribe,  for  the  first  time  since  they  were 
written  on  the  2 ad  of  April  1685,  these  honest 
couplets  : — 

This^  to  the  crown  and  blessing  of  my  life, 
The  much-loved  husband  of  a  happy  wife  ; 
To  him  whose  constant  passion  found  the  art 
To  win  a  stubborn  and  ungrateful  heart ; 
And  to  the  world  by  tenderest  proof  discovers 
They  err  who  say  that  husbands  cant  be  lovers. 
With  such  return  of  passion  as  is  due, 
Daphnis  I  love,  Daphnis  my  thoughts  pursue, 
Daphnis,  my  hopes,  my  joys  are  bounded  all  in  you  ! 

Nearly  thirty  years  later  the  same  accent  is 
audible,  thinned  a  little  by  advancing  years,  and 
subdued  from  passion  to  tenderness,  yet  as 
genuine  as  at  first.  When  at  length  the  Earl 
began  to  suffer  from  the  gout,  his  faithful  family 
songster  recorded  that  also  in  her  amiable  verse, 
and  prayed  that  "  the  bad  disease" 

3VLay  you  but  brief  U7ifrequent  visits  find 
To  prove  you  patient,  your  Jlrdelia  kind. 


Lady  Winchilsea's  Poems       131 

No  one  can  read  her  sensitive  verses,  and  not 
be  sure  that  she  was  the  sweetest  and  most 
soothing  of  bed-side  visitants. 

It  was  a  quiet  life  which  Daphnis  and  Ardelia 
spent  in  the  recesses  of  Eastvvell  Park.  They 
saw  httle  company  and  paid  few  visits.  There 
was  a  stately  excursion  now  and  then,  to  the 
hospitable  Thynnes  at  Longleat,  and  Anne  Finch 
seldom  omitted  to  leave  behind  her  a  metrical 
tribute  to  the  beauties  of  that  mansion.  They 
seem  to  have  kept  up  little  connection  with  the 
Court  or  with  London.  There  is  no  trace  of 
literary  society  in  this  volume.  Nicholas  Rowe 
twice  sent  down  for  their  perusal  translations 
which  he  had  made ;  and  from  another  source 
we  learn  that  Lady  Winchilsea  had  a  brisk 
passage  of  compUments  with  Pope.  But  these 
were  rare  incidents.  We  have  rather  to  think 
of  the  long  years  spent  in  the  seclusion  of  East- 
well,  by  these  gentle  impoverished  people  of 
quality,  the  husband  occupied  with  his  mathema- 
tical studies,  his  painting,  the  care  of  his  garden  ; 
the  wife  studying  further  afield  in  her  romantic 
reverie,  watching  the   birds  in   wild    corners  of 


132  Gossip  in  a  Library 

her  park,  carrying  her  Tasso,  hidden  in  a  fold 
of  her  dress,  to  a  dell  so  remote  that  she  forgets 
the  way  back,  and  has  to  be  carried  home  "in 
a  Water-cart  driven  by  one  of  the  Under-keepers 
in  his  green  Coat,  with  a  Hazle-bough  for  a 
Whip."  It  is  a  little  oasis  of  delicate  and  pen- 
sive refinement  in  that  hot  close  of  the  seven- 
teenth century,  when  so  many  unseemly  monsters 
were  bellowing  in  the  social  wilderness. 


AMASIA 


Amasia 

Amasia  :  or.  The  fVorks  of  the  (Pluses.  tA  Collection  of  Toems.  In 
three  "vclumes.  'By  c^fr.  John  Hopkins.  London:  Trinted  by 
Tho,  Warren,  for  'Bennet  'Banbury,  at  t  '.e  'Blue-tAnchor,  in  the 
Lower -Walk  of  the  C^iu-Exchange,  I'JOO, 

It  has  often  been  remarked  that  if  the  author 
of  the  poorest  collection  of  minor  verse  would 
accurately  relate  in  his  quavering  numbers  what 
his  personal  observations  and  adventures  have 
been,  his  book  would  not  be  entirely  without 
value.  But  ninety-nine  times  out  of  a  hundred, 
this  is  precisely  what  he  cannot  do.  His  rhymes 
carry  him  whither  he  would  not,  and  he  is  lost 
in  a  fog  of  imitated  phrases  and  spurious  sen- 
sations. The  very  odd  and  very  rare  set  of 
three  little  volumes,  which  now  come  before 
us,  offer  a  curious  exception  to  this  rule.  The 
author  of  Amasia  was  no  poet,  but  he  possessed 
the   faculty    of   writing    with    exactitude    about 


136  Gossip  in  a  Library 

himself.  He  prattled  on  in  heroic  couplets  from 
hour  to  hour,  recording  the  tiny  incidents  of  his 
life.  At  first  sight,  his  voluble  miscellany  seems 
a  mere  wilderness  of  tame  verses,  but  when  we 
examine  it  closely  a  story  gradually  evolves. 
We  come  to  know  John  Hopkins,  and  live  in 
the  intimacy  of  his  circle.  His  poems  contain 
a  novelette  in  solution.  So  far  as  I  can  dis- 
cover, nothing  whatever  is  known  of  him  save 
what  he  reveals  of  himself,  and  no  one,  I  think, 
has  ever  searched  his  three  uninviting  volumes. 
In  the  following  paragraphs  I  have  put  together 
his  story  as  it  is  to  be  found  in  the  pages  of 
A  ma  si  a. 

By  a  single  allusion  to  the  Epistolary  Poems 
cf  Charles  Hopkins,  "  very  well  perform'd  by  my 
Brother."  in  1694,  we  are  able  to  identify  the 
author  of  Amasia  with  certainty.  He  was  the 
second  son  of  the  Right  Rev.  Ezekiel  Hopkins, 
Lord  Bishop  of  Derry.  The  elder  brother  whom 
we  have  mentioned,  Charles,  was  considerably 
his  senior ;  for  six  years  the  latter  occupied  a 
tolerably  prominent  place  in  London  literary 
society,  was  the  intimate  friend  of  Diyden  and 


Amasia  137 

Congreve,  published  three  or  four  plays  not  with- 
out success,  and  possessed  a  name  which  is  pretty 
frequently  met  with  in  books  of  the  time.  But  to 
John  Hopkins  I  have  discovered  scarcely  an  allu- 
sion. He  does  not  seem  to  have  moved  in  his 
brother's  circle,  and  his  society  was  probably  more 
courtly  than  literary.  If  we  may  trust  his  own 
account  the  author  of  Amasia  was  born,  doubtless 
at  Londonderry,  on  the  ist  of  January,  1675.  He 
was,  therefore,  only  twenty-five  when  his  poems 
were  published,  and  the  exquisitely  affected 
portrait  which  adorns  the  first  volume  must 
represent  him  as  younger  still,  since  it  was 
executed  by  the  Dutch  engraver,  F.  H.  van  Hove, 
who  was  found  murdered  in  October,  1698. 

Pause  a  moment,  dear  reader,  and  observe 
Mr.  John  Hopkins,  ah'as  Sylvius,  set  out  with 
all  the  artillery  of  ornament  to  storm  the  heart 
of  Amasia.  Notice  his  embroidered  silken  coat, 
his  splendid  lace  cravat,  the  languishment  of  his 
large  foolish  eyes,  the  indubitable  touch  of 
Spanish  red  on  those  smooth  cheeks.  But, 
above  all  contemplate  the  wonders  of  his  vast 
peruke.     He   has    a  name,   be  sure,   for   every 


138  Gossip  in  a  Library 

portion  of  that  killing  structure.  Those  sausage- 
shaped  curls,  close  to  the  ears,  are  confidants; 
those  that  dangle  round  the  temples, /awnV^s/ 
the  sparkling  lock  that  descends  alone  over  the 
right  eyebrow  is  the  passagere;  and,  above  all, 
the  gorgeous  knot  that  unites  the  curls  and 
descends  on  the  left  breast,  is  aptly  named  the 
metirtriere.  If  he  would  but  turn  his  head,  we 
should  see  his  crcve-cceitrs,  the  two  delicate 
curled  locks  at  the  nape  of  his  neck.  The  es- 
cutcheon below  his  portrait  bears,  very  suitably, 
three  loaded  muskets  rampant.  Such  was 
Sylvius,  conquering  but,  alas  !   not  to  conquer. 

The  youth  of  John  Hopkins  was  passed  in 
the  best  Irish  society.  His  father,  the  Bishop, 
married — apparently  in  second  nuptials,  for 
John  speaks  not  of  her  as  a  man  speaks  of  his 
mother — the  daughter  of  the  Earl  of  Radnor. 
Lady  Araminta  Hopkins  seems  to  have  been  a 
friend  of  Isabella,  Duchess  of  Grafton,  the 
exquisite  girl  who,  at  the  age  of  five,  had  married 
a  bridegroom  of  nine,  and  at  twenty-three  was 
left  a  widow,  to  be  the  first  toast  in  English 
society.      The     poems    of    John    Hopkins    are 


Amasia  139 

dedicated  to  this  Dowager-duchess,  who,  when 
they  were  published,  had  already  for  two  years 
been  the  wife  of  Sir  Thomas  Hanmer.  At  the 
age  of  twelve,  and  probably  in  Dublin,  Hopkins 
met  the  mysterious  lady  who  animates  these 
volumes  under  the  name  of  Amasia,  Who  was 
Amasia  ?  That,  alas !  even  the  volubility  of 
her  lover  does  not  reveal.  But  she  was  Irish, 
the  daughter  of  a  wealthy  and  perhaps  titled 
personage,  and  the  intimate  companion  for  many 
years  of  the  beautiful  Duchess  of  Grafton. 

Love  did  not  begin  at  first  sight.  Sylvius 
played  with  Amasia  when  they  both  were  children, 
and  neither  thought  of  love.  Later  on,  in  early 
youth,  the  poet  was  devoted  only  to  a  male 
friend,  one  Martin.  To  him  ecstatic  verses  are 
inscribed  : — 

O  [Martin  !  U^iartin  !  let  the  grateful  sound 

Reach  to  that  Heaven  which  has  our  Friendship  crown  d, 

t/fnd,  li\e  our  endless  Friendships  meet  no  bound. 

But  alas !  one  day  Martin  came  back,  after  a 
long  absence,  and,  although  he  still 

With  generous,  \ind,  continued  Friendship  lurn^d, 


140  Gossip  in  a  Library 


he  found  Sylvius  entirely  absorbed  by  Amasia. 
Martin  knew  better  than  to  show  temper;  he 
accepted  the  situation,  and 

the  lov^d  Amasids  Health  flew  round, 
Jmasids  Health  the  Golden  Goblets  crown' d. 

Now  began  the  first  and  happiest  portion  of 
the  story.  Amasia  had  no  suspicion  of  the  feel- 
ings of  the  poet,  and  he  was  only  too  happy  to  be 
permitted  to  watch  her  movements.  He  records, 
in  successive  copies  of  verses,  the  various  things 
she  did.  He  seems  to  have  been  on  terms  of 
delightful  intimacy  with  the  lady,  and  he  calls 
all  sorts  of  people  of  the  highest  position  to 
witness  how  he  suffered.  To  Lady  Sandwich 
are  dedicated  poems  on  "  Amasia,  drawing  her 
own  Picture,"  on  "Amasia,  playing  with  a 
Clouded  Fan,"  on  "  Amasia,  singing,  and  stick- 
ing pins  in  a  Red  Silk  Pincushion."  We  are 
told  how  Amasia  "looked  at  me  through  a 
Multiplying-Glass,"  how  she  was  troubled  with  a 
redness  in  her  eyes,  how  she  danced  before  a 
looking-glass,  how  her  flowered  muslin  night- 
gown (or  "  night-rail,"  as  he  calls  it)  took  fire, 


Amasia  141 

and  how,  though  she  promised  to  sing,  yet  she 
never  performed.  We  have  a  poem  on  the 
circumstance  that  Amasia,  "  having  prick'd  me 
with  a  Pin,  accidentally  scratch'd  herself  with 
it ;  "  and  another  on  her  "  asking  me  if  I  slept 
well  after  so  tempestuous  a  night."  But  perhaps 
the  most  intimate  of  all  is  a  poem  "  To  Amasia, 
tickling  a  Gentleman."  It  was  no  perfunctory 
tickling  that  Amasia  administered  :— 

While  round  his  sides  your  nimble  Fingers  played. 
With  pleasing  softness  did  they  swiftly  rove, 
While,  at  each  touch,  they  made  his  Heart-strings  move. 
t/fs  round  his  breast,  his  ravish' d  breast  they  crowd. 
We  hear  their  ^usic\  when  he  laughs  aloud. 

This  is  probably  the  only  instance  in  literature 
in  which  a  gentleman  has  complacently  celebrated 
in  verse  the  fact  that  his  lady-love  has  tickled 
some  other  gentleman. 

But  this  generous  simplicity  was  not  long  to 
last.  In  1690  Hopkins's  father,  the  Bishop,  had 
died.  We  may  conjecture  that  Lady  Araminta 
took  charge  of  the  boy,  and  that  his  home,  in 
vacation  time,  was  with  her  in  Dublin  or  London. 
He  writes   like   a  youth  who  has  always  been 


142  Gossip  in  a  Library 

petted ;  the  frou-frou  of  fine  ladies'  petticoats  is 
heard  in  all  his  verses.  But  he  had  no  fortune 
and  no  prospects ;  he  was  utterly,  he  confesses, 
without  ambition.  The  stern  papa  of  Amasia 
had  no  notion  of  bestowing  her  on  the  penniless 
Sylvius,  and  when  the  latter  began  to  court  her 
in  earnest,  she  rebuffed  him.  She  tore  up  his 
love-letters,  she  teased  him  by  sending  her  black 
page  to  the  window  when  he  was  ogling  for  her 
in  the  street  below,  she  told  him  he  was  too 
young  for  her,  and  although  she  had  no  objection 
to  his  addressing  verses  to  her,  she  gave  him  no 
serious  encouragement.  She  was  to  be  married, 
he  hints,  to  some  one  of  her  own  rank — some 
rich  "country  booby." 

At  last,  early  in  1698,  in  company  with 
the  Duchess  of  Grafton,  and  possibly  on  the 
occasion  of  the  second  marriage  of  the 
latter,  Amasia  was  taken  off  to  France,  and 
Hopkins  never  saw  her  again.  A  year  later 
he  received  news  of  her  death,  and  his  little 
romance  was  over.  He  became  ill,  and  Dr. 
Gibbons,  the  great  fashionable  physician  of  the 
day,  was  called   in   to  attend    him.      The  third 


Amasia  143 

volume  closes  by  his  summoning  the  faithful  and 
unupbraiding  Martin  back  to  his  heart : 

Love  lives  in  Sun- Shine,  or  that  Storm,  'Despair, 
'But  gentler  Friendship  Breathes  a  (Mod' rate  Mr. 

And  so  Sylvius,  with  all  his  galaxy  of  lovely 
Irish  ladies,  his  fashionable  Muses,  and  his  trite 
and  tortured  fancy,  disappears  into  thin  air. 

The  only  literary  man  whom  he  mentions  as 
a  friend  is  George  Farquhar,  himself  a  native  of 
Londonderry,  and  about  the  same  age  as  Hopkins. 
This  playwright  seems  to  be  sometimes  alluded 
to  as  Daphnis,  sometimes  under  his  own  name. 
Before  the  performance  of  Love  and  a  Bottle, 
Hopkins  prophesied  for  the  author  a  place  where 

Congreve,  X)anhroo\,  and  Wicherley  must  sit, 
The  great  Triumvirate  of  Comick.  Wit, 

and  later  on  he  thought  that  even  Collier  himself 
ought  to  commend  the  Constant  Couple,  or  A  Trip 
to  the  Jubilee.  At  the  first  performance  of  this 
play,  towards  the  close  of  1699,  Hopkins  was 
greatly  perturbed  by  the  presence  of  a  lady  who 
reminded  him  of  Amasia,  and  when  he  visited  the 


144  Gossip  in  a  Library- 

theatre  next  he  was  less  pleased  with  the  play. 
These  are  the  only  traces  of  literary  bias.  In  other 
respects  Hopkins  is  interested  in  nothing  more 
serious  than  a  lock  of  Amasia's  hair ;  the  china 
cup  she  had,  "  round  the  sides  of  which  were 
painted  Trees,  and  at  the  bottom  a  Naked  Woman 
Weeping ; "  her  box  of  patches,  in  which  she 
finds  a  silver  penny  ;  or  the  needlework  em- 
broidered on  her  gown.  When  Amasia  died 
there  was  no  reason  why  Sylvius  should  con- 
tinue to  exist,  and  he  fades  out  of  our  vision 
like  a  ghost. 


LOVE    AND    BUSINESS 


K 


Love  and  Business 

Love  and  Business  :  in  a  Collection  of  occasionary  "Verse  and  eipiuolary 
Trose,  not  hitherto  published.  'By  c^r.  (jeorge  Farquhar,  En 
Orenge  il  n'y  a  point  d'oranges.  London^  f  rimed  for 'B.  Lintott^ 
at  thi  Tost-House,  in  the  oPlfiddle  Temfle-ffate,  F/eetstreet.      1 702. 

There  are  some  books,  like  some  people,  of 
whom  we  form  an  indulgent  opinion  without 
finding  it  easy  to  justify  our  liking.  The  young 
man  who  went  to  the  life-insurance  office  and 
reported  that  his  father  had  died  of  no  par- 
ticular disease,  but  just  of  "  plain  death,"  would 
sympathise  with  the  feeling  I  mention.  Some- 
times we  like  a  book,  not  for  any  special  merit, 
but  just  because  it  is  what  it  is.  The  rare, 
and  yet  not  celebrated,  miscellany  of  which  I 
am  about  to  write  has  this  character.  It  is 
not  instructive,  or  very  high-toned,  or  excep- 
tionally clever,  but  if  it  were  a  man,  all  people 


14H  Gossip  in  a  Library 

that  are  not  prigs  would  say  that  it  was  a  very 
good  sort  of  fellow.  If  it  be,  as  it  certainly  is, 
a  literary  advantage  for  a  nondescript  collection 
of  trifles  to  reproduce  minutely  the  personality 
of  its  writer,  then  Love  and  Business  has 
one  definite  merit.  Wherever  we  dip  into  its 
pages  we  may  use  it  as  a  telephone,  and  hear 
a  young  Englishman  of  the  year  1700,  talking  to 
himself  and  to  his  friends  in  the  most  unaffected 
accents. 

Captain  George  Farquhar,  in  1702,  was  four- 
and-twenty  years  of  age.  He  was  a  smart, 
soldier-like  Irishman,  of  "  a  splenetic  and  amo- 
rous complexion,"  half  an  actor,  a  quarter  a 
poet,  and  altogether  a  very  honest  and  gallant 
gentleman.  He  had  taken  to  the  stage  kindly 
enough,  and  at  twenty,  had  written  Love  and 
a  Bottle.  Since  then,  two  other  plays.  The 
Constant  Couple  and  Sir  Harry  JVildair,  had 
proved  that  he  had  wit  and  fancy,  and  knew  how 
to  knit  them  together  into  a  rattling  comedy. 
But  he  was  poor,  always  in  pursuit  of  that  timid 
wild-fowl,  the  occasional  guinea,  and  with  no 
sort  of  disposition  to  settle   down   into  a  heavy 


Love  and  Business  149 

citizen.  In  order  to  bring  down  a  kw  brace  of 
golden  game,  he  shovels  into  Lintott's  hands  his 
stray  verses  of  all  kinds,  a  bundle  of  letters  he 
wrote  from  Holland,  a  dignified  essay  or  dis- 
course upon  Comedy,  and,  with  questionable 
taste  perhaps,  a  set  of  copies  of  the  love-letters 
he  had  addressed  to  the  lady  who  became  his 
wife.  All  this  is  not  very  praiseworthy,  and 
as  a  contribution  to  literature  it  is  slight  indeed  ; 
but,  then,  how  genuine  and  sincere,  how  guileless 
and  picturesque  is  the  self-revelation  of  it ! 
There  is  no  attempt  to  make  things  better  than 
they  are,  nor  any  pandering  to  a  cynical  taste  by 
making  tliem  worse.  Why  should  he  conceal 
or  falsify  ?  The  town  knows  what  sort  of  a 
fellow  George  Farquhar  is.  Here  are  some 
letters  and  some  verses ;  the  beaux  at  White's 
may  read  them  if  they  will,  and  then  throw 
them  away. 

As  we  turn  the  desultory  pages,  the  figure  of 
the  author  rises  before  us,  good-natured,  easy- 
going, high-coloured,  not  bad-looking,  with  an  air 
of  a  gentleman  in  spite  of  his  misfortunes.  We 
do   not   know   the  exact  details  of    his  military 


1 50  Gossip  in  a  Library 

honours.  We  may  think  of  him  as  swaggering 
in  scarlet  regimentals,  but  we  have  his  own  word 
for  it  that  he  was  often  in  mufti.  His  mind  is 
generally  dressed,  he  says,  like  his  body,  in 
black  ;  for  though  he  is  so  brisk  a  spark  in 
company,  he  suffers  sadly  from  the  spleen  when 
he  is  alone.  We  can  follow  him  pretty  closely 
through  his  day.  He  is  a  queer  mixture  of 
profanity  and  piety,  of  coarseness  and  loyalty, 
of  cleverness  and  density  ;  we  do  not  breed  this 
kind  of  beau  nowadays,  and  yet  Vv^e  might  do 
worse,  for  this  specimen  is,  with  all  his  faults,  a 
man.  He  dresses  carefully  in  the  morning,  in 
his  uniform  or  else  in  his  black  suit.  When  he 
wants  to  be  specially  smart,  as,  for  instance, 
when  he  designs  a  conquest  at  a  birthday-party, 
he  has  to  ferret  among  the  pawnbrokers  for 
scraps  of  finery,  or  secure  on  loan  a  fair,  full- 
bottom  wig.  But  he  is  not  so  impoverished  that 
he  cannot  on  these  occasions  give  his  valet  and 
his  barber  plenty  of  work  to  do  preparing  his 
face  with  razors,  perfumes  and  washes.  He 
would  like  to  be  Sir  Fopling  Flutter,  if  he  could 
afford   it,   and   gazes    a  little  enviously   at    that 


Love  and  Business  151 


noble  creature  in  his  French  clothes,  as  he 
lounges  luxuriantly  past  him  in  his  coach  with 
six  before  and  six  behind. 

Poor  Captain  Farquhar  begins  to  expect  that 
he  himself  will  never  be  "  a  first-rate  Beau." 
So,  on  common  mornings,  a  little  splenetic,  he 
wanders  down  to  the  coffee-houses  and  reads 
the  pamphlets,  those  which  find  King  William 
glorious,  and  those  that  rail  at  the  watery 
Dutch.  He  will  even  be  a  Uttle  Jacobitish  for 
pure  foppery,  and  have  a  fling  at  the  Church, 
but  in  his  heart  he  is  with  the  Ministry.  He 
meets  a  friend  at  White's,  and  they  adjourn 
presently  to  the  Fleece  Tavern,  where  the 
drawer  brings  them  a  bottle  of  New  French 
and  a  neat's  tongue,  over  which  they  discuss 
the  doctrine  of  predestination  so  hotly  that  two 
mackerel-vendors  burst  in,  mistaking  their  lifted 
voices  for  a  cry  for  fish.  His  friend  has  busi- 
ness in  the  city,  and  so  our  poet  strolls  off  to 
the  Park,  and  takes  a  turn  in  the  Mall  with  his 
hat  in  his  hand,  prepared  for  an  adventure  or  a 
chat  with  a  friend.  Then  comes  the  play,  the 
inevitable  early  play,  still,  even  in  1700,  apt  to 


152  Gossip  ill  a  Library 

be  so  rank-lipped  that  respectable  ladies  could 
only  appear  at  it  in  masks.  It  was  the  transition 
period,  and  poor  Comedy,  who  was  saying  good- 
bye to  literature,  was  just  about  to  console  herself 
with  modesty. 

However,  a  domino  may  slip  aside,  and 
Mr.  George  Farquhar  notices  a  little  lady  in 
a  deep  mourning  mantua,  whose  eyes  are  not 
to  be  forgotten.  She  goes,  however ;  it  is 
useless  to  pursue  her  ;  but  the  music  raises  his 
soul  to  such  a  pitch  of  passion  that  he  is  almost 
melancholy.  He  strolls  out  into  Spring  Garden, 
but  there,  "  with  envious  eyes,  I  saw  every  Man 
pick  up  his  Mate,  whilst  I  alone  walked  like 
solitary  Adam  before  the  Creation  of  his  Eve ; 
but  the  place  was  no  Paradise  to  me ;  nothing  I 
found  entertaining  but  the  Nightingale."  So 
that  in  those  sweet  summer  evenings  of  1700, 
over  the  laced  and  brocaded  couples  promenading 
in  Spring  Garden,  as  over  good  Sir  Roger  twelve 
years  later,  the  indulgent  nightingale  still  poured 
her  notes.  To-day  you  cannot  hear  the  very 
bells  of  St.  Martin's  for  the  roar  of  the  traffic. 
So  lonely,  and  too  easily  enamoured,  George  has 


Love  and   Business  153 

to  betake  himself  to  the  tavern,  and  a  passable 
Burgundy.  There  is  no  idealism  about  him. 
He  is  very  fit  for  repentance  next  morning. 
"  The  searching  Wine  has  sprung  the  Rheuma- 
tism in  my  Right  Hand,  my  Head  aches,  my 
Stomach  pukes."  Our  poor,  good-humoured  beau 
has  no  constitution  for  this  mode  of  life,  and  we 
know,  though  happily  he  dreams  not  of  it,  that 
he  is  to  die  at  thirty-one. 

This  picture  of  Farquhar's  life  is  nowhere 
given  in  the  form  just  related,  but  not  one  touch 
in  the  portrait  but  is  to  be  found  somewhere  in 
the  frank  and  easy  pages  of  Love  and  Business. 
The  poems  are  of  their  age  and  kind.  There 
is  a  "  Pindarick,"  of  course ;  it  was  so  easy  to 
write  one,  and  so  reputable.  There  are  compli- 
ments in  verse  to  one  of  the  female  wits  who  were 
writing  then  for  the  stage,  Mrs.  Trotter,  author 
of  the  Fatal  Friendship ;  there  are  amatory  ex- 
planations of  all  kinds.  When  he  fails  to  keep 
an  appointment  with  a  lady  on  account  of  the  rain 
— for  there  were  no  umbrellas  in  those  days — he 
likens  himself  to  Leander,  wistful  on  the  Sestian 
shore.     He  is  not  always  very  discreet ;  Damon's 


154  Gossip  in  a  Library 

thoughts  when  "  Night's  black  Curtain  o'er  the 
World  was  spread  "  were  very  innocent,  but  such 
as  we  have  decided  nowadays  to  say  nothing 
about.  It  was  the  fashion  of  the  time  to  be 
outspoken.  There  is  no  value,  however,  in  the 
verse,  except  that  it  is  graphic  now  and  then. 
The  letters  are  much  more  interesting.  Those 
sent  from  Holland  in  the  autumn  of  1700  are 
very  good  reading.  I  make  bold  to  quote  one 
passage  from  the  first,  describing  the  storm  he 
encountered  in  crossing.  It  depicts  our  hero  to 
the  life,  with  all  his  inconsistencies.  He  says  : 
"  By  a  kind  of  Poetical  Philosoph}'  I  bore  up 
pretty  well  under  my  Apprehensions ;  though 
never  worse  prepared  for  Death,  I  must  confess, 
for  I  think  I  never  had  so  much  Money  about 
me  at  a  time.  We  had  some  Ladies  aboard, 
that  were  so  extremely  sick,  that  they  often 
wished  for  Death,  but  were  damnably  afraid  of 
being  drown'd.  But,  as  the  Scripture  says, 
*  Sorrow  may  last  for  a  Night,  but  Joy  cometh 
in  the  Morning,' "  and  so  on.  The  poor  fellow 
means  no  harm  by  all  this,  as  Hodgson  once 
said  of  certain  remarks  of  Byron's. 


Love  and  Business  155 

The  love-letters  are  very  curious.  It  is  be- 
lieved that  the  sequel  of  them  was  a  very 
unhappy  marriage.  Captain  Farquhar  was  of  a 
loving  disposition,  and  as  inflammable  as  a  hay- 
rick. He  cannot  have  been  much  more  than 
tvrenty-one  when  he  described  what  he  desired 
in  a  wife.      "  O  could  I  find,"  he  said — 

0  could  I  find  ( (jrant,  Heaven,  that  ojice  I  may  /) 
A  Nymph  fair,  kind,  poetical  and  gay. 

Whose  Love  should  blaze,  unsullied  and  divine, 
Lighted  at  first  by  the  bright  Lamp  of  mine, 
Free  as  a  (Mistress,  faithful  as  a  wife, 
And  one  that  lov'd  a  Fiddle  as  her  Life, 
Free  from  all  sordid  Ends,  from  Interest  free. 
For  my  own  Sake  affecting  only  me. 
What  a  blest  Union  should  our  Souls  combi7ie  ! 

1  hers  alone,  and  she  be  only  mine  ! 

It  does  not  seem  a  very  exacting  ideal,  but  the 
poor  poet  missed  it.  Whether  Mrs.  Farquhar 
loved  a  fiddle  as  her  life  is  not  recorded,  but  she 
certainly  was  not  free  from  all  sordid  ends  and 
unworthy  tricks.  The  little  lady  in  the  mourn- 
ing mantua  soon  fell  in  love  with  our  gallant 
spark,  and  when  he  made  court  to  her,  she 
represented     herself    as     very    wealthy.       The 


156  Gossip  in  a  Library 

deed  accomplished,  Mrs.  Farquhar  turned  out  to 
be  penniless  ;  and  the  poet,  like  a  gentleman  as 
he  was,  never  reproached  her,  but  sat  down 
cheerfully  to  a  double  poverty.  In  Love  and 
Business    the    story   does    not   proceed    so    far. 

He  receives  Miss  Penelope  V 's  timid  advances, 

describes  himself  to  her,  is  soon  as  much  in  love 
with  his  little  lady  as  she  with  him,  and  is 
making  broad  demands  and  rich-blooded  confi- 
dences in  fine  style,  no  offence  taken  where  no 
harm  is  meant.  In  one  of  the  letters  to  Penelope 
we  get  a  very  interesting  glance  at  a  famous, 
and,  as  it  happens,  rather  obscure,  event — the 
funeral  of  the  great  Dryden,  in  May  1700. 
Farquhar  says  : 

"  I  come  now  from  Mr.  Dryden's  Funeral, 
where  we  had  an  Ode  in  Horace  sung,  instead 
of  David's  Psalms  ;  whence  you  may  find  that 
we  don't  think  a  Poet  worth  Christian  Burial  ; 
the  Pomp  of  the  Ceremony  was  a  kind  of  Rhap- 
sody, and  fitter,  I  think,  for  Hudibras  than  him  ; 
because  the  Cavalcade  was  mostly  Burlesque ; 
but  he  was  an  extraordinary  Man,  and  bury'd 
after   an    extraordinary    Fashion ;    for    I    believe 


Love  and  Business  157 

there  was  never  such  another  Burial  seen  ;  the 
Oration  indeed  was  great  and  ingenious,  worthy 
the  Subject,  and  like  the  Author  [Dr.  Garth], 
whose  Prescriptions  can  restore  the  Living,  and 
his  Pen  embalm  the  Dead.  And  so  much  for 
Mr.  Dryden,  whose  Burial  was  the  same  with 
his  Life, — Variety,  and  not  of  a  Piece.  The 
Quality  and  Mob,  Farce  and  Heroicks,  the  Sub- 
lime and  Ridicule  mixt  in  a  Piece,  great  Cleopatra 
in  a  Hackney  Coach," 


WHAT    ANN    LANG    READ 


what  Ann  Lang  Read 

Who  was  Ann  Lang?  Alas !  I  am  not  sure  ; 
but  she  flourished  one  hundred  and  sixty  years 
ago,  under  his  glorious  Majesty,  George  I.,  and 
I  have  become  the  happy  possessor  of  a  portion 
of  her  library.  It  consists  of  a  number  of  cheap 
novels,  all  pubhshed  in  1723  or  1724,  when  Ann 
Lang  probably  bought  them  ;  and  each  carries, 
written  on  the  back  of  the  title,  "  ann  Lang  book 
1727,"  which  is  doubtless  the  date  of  her  lending 
them  to  some  younger  female  friend.  The 
letters  of  this  inscription  are  round  and 
laboriously  shaped,  while  the  form  is  always  the 
same,  and  never  "  Ann  Lang,  her  book,"  which 
is  what  one  would  expect.  It  is  not  the  hand 
of  a  person  of  quality  :  I  venture  to  conclude 
that  she  who  wrote  it  was  a  milUner's  apprentice 
or  a  servant-girl.       There  are  five  novels  in  this 

L 


1 62  Gossip  in  a  Library- 

little  collection,  and  a  play,  and  a  pamphlet  of 
poems,  and  a  bundle  of  love-letters,  all  signed 
upon  their  title-pages  by  the  Ouida  of  the  period, 
the  great  Eliza  Haywood. 

No  one  who  has  not  dabbled  among  old  books 
knows  how  rare  have  become  the  strictly  popular 
publications  of  a  non-literary  kind  which  a  gene- 
ration of  the  lower  middle  class  has  read  and 
thrown  away.  Eliza  Haywood  lives  in  the  minds 
of  men  solely  through  one  very  coarse  and  cruel 
allusion  to  her  made  by  Pope  in  the  Dunciad. 
She  was  never  recognised  among  people  of  intel- 
lectual quality  ;  she  ardently  desired  to  belong  to 
literature,  but  her  wish  was  never  seriously  grati- 
fied, even  by  her  friend  Aaron  Hill.  Yet  she 
probably  numbered  more  readers,  for  a  year  or 
two,  than  any  other  person  in  the  British  realm. 
She  poured  forth  what  she  called  "  little  Per- 
formances "  from  a  tolerably  respectable  press  ; 
and  the  wonder  is  that  in  these  days  her  abundant 
writings  are  so  very  seldom  to  be  met  with.  Tne 
secret  doubtless  is  that  her  large  public  consisted 
almost  wholly  of  people  like  Ann  Lang.  Eliza 
was  read  by  servants  in   the  kitchen,  by  seam- 


What  Ann  Lang   Read         163 

stresses,  by  basket-women,  by  'prentices  of  all 
sorts,  male  and  female,  but  mostly  the  latter. 
For  girls  of  this  sort  there  was  no  other  reading 
of  a  light  kind  in  1724.  It  was  Eliza  Haywood 
or  nothing.  The  men  of  the  same  class  read 
Defoe ;  but  he,  with  his  cynical  severity,  his 
absence  of  all  pity  for  a  melting  mood,  his 
savagery  towards  women,  was  not  likely  to  be 
preferred  by  "  straggling  nymphs."  The  footman 
might  read  Roxana,  and  the  hackney-writer  sit 
up  after  his  ioW  over  Moll  Flanders ;  there  was 
much  in  these  romances  to  interest  men.  But 
what  had  Ann  Lang  to  do  with  stories  so  cold 
and  harsh  ?      She  read  Eliza  Haywood. 

But  most  of  her  sisters,  of  Eliza's  great  clientele, 
did  not  know  how  to  treat  a  book.  They  read 
it  to  tatters,  and  they  threw  it  away.  It  may  be 
news  to  some  readers  that  these  early  novels 
were  very  cheap.  Ann  Lang  bought  Love  in 
Excess,  which  is  quite  a  thick  volume,  for  two 
shillings ;  and  the  first  volume  of  Idalia  (for 
Eliza  was  Ouidesque  even  in  her  titles)  only 
cost  her  eighteen-pence.  She  seems  to  have 
been  a  clean  girl.       She  did  not  drop  warm  lard 


164  Gossip  in  a  Library 

on  the  leaves.  She  did  not  tottle  up  her  milk- 
scores  on  the  bastard-title.  She  did  not  scribble 
in  the  margin  "  Emanuella  is  a  foul  wench." 
She  did  not  dog's-ear  her  little  library,  or  stain 
it,  or  tear  it.  I  owe  it  to  that  rare  and  fortunate 
circumstance  of  her  neatness  that  her  beloved 
books  have  come  into  my  possession  after  the 
passage  of  so  many  generations.  It  must  be 
recollected  that  Eliza  Haywood  lived  in  the  very 
twilight  of  English  fiction.  Sixteen  years  were 
to  pass,  in  1724,  before  the  British  hovel  properly 
began  to  dawn  in  Pamela,  twenty-five  years 
before  it  broke  in  the  full  splendour  of  Tom 
Jones.  Eliza  Haywood  simply  followed  where, 
two  generations  earlier,  the  redoubtable  Mrs. 
Aphra  Behn  had  led.  She  preserved  the  old 
romantic  manner,  a  kind  of  corruption  of  the 
splendid  Scudery  and  Calprenede  folly  of  the 
middle  of  the  seventeenth  century.  All  that  dis- 
tinguished her  was  her  vehement  exuberance  and 
the  emptiness  of  the  field.  Ann  Lang  was  young, 
and  instinctively  attracted  to  the  study  of  the  pas- 
sion of  love.  She  must  read  something,  and  there 
was  nothing  but  Eliza   Haywood  for  her  to  read. 


What  Ann  Lang  Read  165 

The  heroines  of  these  old  stories  were  all 
palpitating  with  sensibility,  although  that  name 
had  not  yet  been  invented  to  describe  their  con- 
dition. When  they  received  a  letter  beginning 
"To  the  divine  Lassellia,"  or  "To  the  incom- 
parable Donna  Emanuella,"  they  were  thrown 
into  the  most  violent  disorder ;  "  a  thousand 
different  Passions  succeeded  one  another  in  their 
turns,"  and  as  a  rule  "'twas  all  too  sudden  to 
admit  disguise."  When  a  lady  in  Eliza  Hay- 
wood's novels  receives  a  note  from  a  gentleman, 
"  all  her  Limbs  forget  their  Function,  and  she 
sinks  fainting  on  the  Bank,  in  much  the  same 
posture  as  she  was  before  she  rais'd  herself  a 
little  to  take  the  Letter."  I  am  positive  than  Ann 
Lang  practised  this  series  of  attitudes  in  the  soli- 
tude of  her  garret. 

There  is  no  respite  for  the  emotions  from 
Eliza's  first  page  to  her  last.  The  implacable 
Douxmoure  (for  such  was  her  singular  name) 
"  continued  for  some  time  in  a  Condition 
little  different  from  Madness  ;  but  when  Reason 
had  a  little  recovered  its  usual  Sway,  a  deadly 
Melancholy  succeeded  Passion."       When  Bcvillia 


1 66  Gossip  in  a  Library 

tried  to  explain  to  her  cousin  that  EmiHus  was 
no  fit  suitor  for  her  hand,  the  young  lady  swooned 
twice  before  she  seized  Bevillia's  **  cruel  mean- 
ing ;  "  and  then — ah  !  then — "  silent  the  stormy 
Passions  roli'd  in  her  tortured  Bosom,  disdaining 
the  mean  Ease  of  raging  or  complaining.  It  was 
a  considerable  time  before  she  utter'd  the  least 
Syllable  ;  and  when  she  did,  she  seem'd  to  start 
as  from  some  dreadful  Dream,  and  cry'd,  '  It  is 
enough — in  knowing  one  I  know  the  whole 
deceiving  Sex '  ;  "  and  she  began  to  address  an 
imaginary  Women's  Rights  Meeting. 

Plot  was  not  a  mr.tter  about  which  Eliza  Hay- 
wood greatly  troubled  herself.  A  contemporary 
aduiircr  remarked,  with  justice — • 

'7/i  Love  Eliza's  scft  Jffcctions  fires  ; 

S.'iza  writes,  but  Love  alone  itispires  ; 

'  Tis  Love  that  gives  D'  Elmotit  his  manly  ^/yZ/V/^j, 

c/Ihd  tears  Ame;:a  from  her  Father'' s  An::s. 

These  last-named  persons  are  the  hero  and 
he.oine  of  Love  in  Excess;  or  TJie  Fatal  Inquiry ^ 
which  seems  to  have  been  the  most  popular  of 
the  whole  sencs.      This   novel   might    be   called 


What  Ann  Lang  Read  167 


Love  through  a  Window ;  for  it  almost  entirely 
consists  of  a  relation  of  how  the  gentleman 
prowled  by  moonlight  in  a  garden,  while  the 
lady,  in  an  ajitated  disorder,  peeped  out  of  her 
lattice  in  "  a  most  charming  Dishabillee."  Alas  ! 
there  was  a  lock  to  the  door  of  a  garden  stair- 
case, and  while  the  lady  "  was  paying  a  Compli- 
ment to  the  Recluse,  he  was  dextrous  enough 
to  slip  the  Key  out  of  the  Door  unperceived." 
Ann  Lang  ! — "  a  sudden  cry  of  Murder,  and  the 
noise  of  clashing  Svvcrds,"  come  none  too  soon 
to  save  those  blushes  which,  we  hope,  you  had 
in  readiness  for  the  turning  of  tlie  page  !  Eliza 
Haywood  assures  us,  in  Idalia,  that  her  object  in 
writing  is  that  "the  Warmth  and  Vigour  of 
Youth  may  be  tempcr'd  by  a  due  Consideration  ; '' 
yet  the  moralist  must  complain  that  she  goes  a 
strange  way  about  it.  Idalia  herself  was  "  a  lovely 
Inconsiderate  "  of  Venice,  who  escaped  in  a  "  Gon- 
dula"  up  "the  River  Brent,"  and  set  all  Vicenza 
by  the  ears  through  her  "stock  of  Haughtiness, 
which  nothing  could  surmount."  At  last,  after 
adventures  which  can  scarcely  have  edified  Ann 
Lang,  Idalia  abruptly  "  remember'd  to  have  heard 


1 68  Gossip  in  a  Library 

of  a  Monastery  at  Verona,"  and  left  Vicenza  at 
break  of  day,  taking  her  "  unguarded  languish- 
ments  "  out  of  that  city  and  out  of  the  novel.  It 
is  true  that  Ann  Lang,  for  2s.,  bought  a  continua- 
tion of  the  career  of  IdaLa  ;  but  we  need  not 
follow  her. 

The  perusal  of  so  many  throbbing  and  melting 
romances  must  necessarily  have  awakened  in  the 
breast  of  female  readers  a  desire  to  see  the 
creator  of  these  tender  scenes.  I  am  happy  to 
inform  my  readers  that  there  is  every  reason  to 
believe  that  Ann  Lang  gratified  this  innocent 
wish.  At  all  events,  there  exists  among  her 
volumes  the  little  book  of  the  play  sold  at  the 
doors  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  when,  in  the 
summer  of  1724,  Eliza  Haywood's  new  comedy 
of  A  Wife  to  be  Lett  was  acted  there,  with  the 
author  performing  in  the  part  of  Mrs.  Graspall. 
The  play  itself  is  wretched,  and  tradition  says 
that  it  owed  what  little  success  it  enjoyed  to  the 
eager  desire  which  the  novelist's  readers  felt  to 
gaze  upon  her  features.  She  was  about  thirty 
years  of  age  at  the  time ;  but  no  one  says  that 
she  was  handsome,  and  she  was  undoubtedly  a 


What  Ann   Lang  Read  169 

bad  actrcfs.  I  tliink  tl:e  disappointment  that 
evening  at  the  Theatre  Royal  opened  the  eyes 
of  Ann  Lang.  Perhaps  it  was  the  appearance  of 
Eh'za  in  the  flesh  which  prevented  her  old  admirer 
from  buying  The  Secret  History  of  Cleoniina,  sttp- 
posd  dead,  which  I  miss  from  the  collection. 

If  Ann  Lang  hved  on  until  the  publication  of 
Pamela — especially  if  during  the  interval  she 
had  bettered  her  social  condition — with  what 
ardour  must  she  have  hailed  the  advent  of  what, 
with  all  its  shortcomings,  was  a  book  worth  gold. 
Perhaps  she  went  to  Vauxhr.ll  with  it  in  her 
muff,  and  shook  it  triumphantly  at  some  middle- 
aged  lady  of  her  acquaintance.  Perhaps  she 
lived  long  enough  to  see  one  great  novel  after 
another  break  forth  to  lighten  the  darkness  of 
life.  She  must  have  looked  back  on  the  pom- 
pous and  lascivious  pages  of  Eliza  Haywood, 
with  their  long-drawn  palpitating  intrigues,  with 
positive  disgust.  The  English  novel  began  in 
1740,  and  after  that  date  there  was  always  some- 
thing wholesome  for  Ann  Lang  and  her  sisters 
to  read. 


CATS 


Cats 

Les  Chats.     tA  '^JtenJam,  che%  Jean  Darnel  'Beman^ 
<:M'T)CCXXVUl 

An  accomplished  lady  of  my  acquaintance  tells 
me  that  she  is  preparing  an  anthology  of  the 
cat.  This  announcement  has  reminded  me  of 
one  of  the  oddest  and  most  entertaining 
volumes  in  my  library.  People  who  collect 
prints  of  the  eighteenth  century  know  an  en- 
graving which  represents  a  tom-cat,  rampant, 
holding  up  an  oval  portrait  of  a  gentleman  and 
standing,  in  order  to  do  so,  on  a  volume.  The 
volume  is  Lcs  Chats,  the  book  before  us,  and 
the  portrait  is  that  of  the  author,  the  amiable 
and  amusing  Augustin  Paradis  de  Moncrif.  He 
was  the  son  of  English,  or  more  probably  of 
Scotch  parents  settled  in  Paris,  where  he  was 
born    in    1687.      All    we    know    of    his   earlier 


174  Gossip  in  a  Library 


years  is  to  be  found  in  a  single  sparkling  page 
of  d'Alembert,  who  makes  Moncrif  float  out  of 
obscurity  like  the  most  elegant  of  iridescent 
bubbles.  He  was  handsome  and  seductive, 
turned  a  copy  of  verses  with  the  best  of  gentle- 
men, but  was  particularly  distinguished  by  the 
art  with  which  he  purveyed  little  dramas  for 
the  amateur  stage,  then  so  much  in  fashion  in 
France,  Somebody  said  of  him,  when  he  was 
famous  as  the  laureate  of  the  cats,  that  he  had 
risen  in  life  by  never  scratching,  by  always 
having  velvet  paws,  and  by  never  putting  up  his 
back,  even  when  he  was  startled.  Voltaire 
called  him  "  my  very  dear  Sylph,"  and  he  was 
the  ideal  of  all  that  was  noiseless,  graceful, 
good-humoured,  and  well-bred.  He  slipped 
unobtrusively  into  the  French  Academy,  and 
lived  to  be  eighty-three,  dying  at  last,  hke 
Anacreon,  in  the  midst  of  music  and  dances 
and  fair  nymphs  of  the  Opera,  affecting  to  be 
a  sad  old  rogue  to  the  very  last. 

This  book  on  Cats,  the  only  one  by  which 
he  is  now  remembered,  was  the  sole  production 
of  his   hfetinie  which    cost   him  any  annoy  ante. 


Cats  175 

He  was  forty  years  of  age  when  it  appeared, 
and  the  subject  was  considered  a  little  frivo- 
lous, even  for  such  a  petit  conteur  as  Mcncrif. 
People  continued  to  tease  him  about  it,  and  the 
only  rough  thing  he  ever  did  was  the  result 
of  one  such  twitting.  The  poet  Roy  made  an 
epigram  about  "cats"  and  "rats,"  in  execrable 
taste,  no  doubt ;  this  siung  our  Sylph  to  such 
an  excess  that  he  waited  outside  the  Palais 
Royal  and  beat  Roy  with  a  stick  when  he  came 
out.  The  poet  was,  perhaps,  not  much  hurt ; 
at  all  events,  he  had  the  presence  of  mind  to 
retort,  "  Patte  de  velours,  patte  de  velours, 
Minon-minet !  "  It  was  six  years  after  this  that 
Moncrif  was  elected  into  the  French  Academy, 
and  then  the  shower  of  epigrams  broke  out 
rgain.  He  wished  to  be  made  historiographer; 
"  Oh,  nonsense,"  the  wits  cried,  "  he  must  mean 
historiogriffe,"  and  they  invited  him,  on  nights 
when  the  Academy  met,  to  climb  on  to  the  roof 
and  miau  from  the  chimney-pots.  He  had  the 
weakness  to  apologise  for  his  charming  book, 
and  to  withdraw  it  from  circulation.  His  pas- 
toral talcs  and  heroic  ballets,  his  Zc'Undors  and 


176  Gossip  in  a  Library 


Ze'loides  and  Erosines,  which  to  us  seem  utterly 
vapid  and  frivolous,  never  gave  him  a  mo- 
ment's uneasiness.  His  crumpled  rose-leaf 
was  the  book  by  which  his  name  lives  in  litera- 
ture. 

The  book  of  cats  is  written  in  the  form  of 

eleven  letters  to  Madame  la  Marquise  de  B . 

The  anonymous  author  represents  himself  as  too 
much  excited  to  sleep,  after  an  evening  spent  in 
a  fashionable  house,  where  the  company  was 
abusing  cats.  He  was  unsupported  ;  where  was 
the  Marquise,  who  would  have  brought  a  thou- 
sand arguments  to  his  assistance,  founded  on  her 
own  experience  of  virtuous  pussies  ?  Instead 
of  going  to  bed  he  will  sit  up  and  indite  the 
panegyric  of  the  feline  race.  He  is  still  sore 
at  the  prejudice  and  injustice  of  the  people  he 
has  just  left.  It  culminated  in  the  conduct  of 
a  lady  who  declared  that  cats  were  poison,  and 
who,  "  when  pussy  appeared  in  the  room,  had 
the  presence  of  mind  to  faint."  These  people 
had  rallied  him  on  the  absurdity  of  his  enthu- 
siasm ;  but,  as  he  says,  the  Marquise  well 
knows,    "  how  many  women  have  a   passion   for 


Cats  177 

cats,   and  how   many    men   are   women    in  this 
respect." 

So  he  starts  away  on  his  dissertation,  with  all 
its   elegant    pedantry,    its    paradoxical    wit,    its 
genuine  touches  of  observation   and   its  constant 
sparkle  of  anecdote.     He  is  troubled   to   account 
for   the    existence    of    the    cat.        An    Ottoman 
legend  relates  that  when  the  animals  were  in  the 
Ark,  Noah  gave  the  lion  a  great  box  on  the  ear, 
which  made  him    sneeze,  and    produce  a  cat  out 
of    his    nose.       But    the    author  questions   this 
origin,    and    is    more    inclined   to   agree    with   a 
Turkish  Minister  of   Religion,  sometime  Ambas- 
sador  to    France,    that    the    ape,    "  weary   of  a 
sedentary  life  "  in   the  Ark,  paid    his   attentions 
to  a  very  agreeable  young  lioness,  whose  infide- 
lities resulted  in  the  birth   of  a    Tom-cat   and  a 
Puss-cat,  and  that  these,  combining  the  qualities 
of  their  parents,  spread  through  the  Ark  un  esprit 
de  coquetteric — which  lasted  during  the  whole  of 
the  sojourn   there.     Moncrif  has  no  difficulty  in 
showing  that  the  East   has  always  been  devoted 
to  cats,  and  he  tells  the  story  of  Mahomet,  who, 
being  consulted   one   day  on    a   point   of  piety, 

M 


178  Gossip  in  a  Library 

preferred  to  cut  off  his  sleeve,  on  which  his 
favourite  pussy  was  asleep,  rather  than  wake 
her  violently  by  rising. 

From  the  French  poets,  Moncrif  collects  a 
good  many  curious  tributes  to  the  "  harmless, 
necessary  cat."  I  am  seized  with  an  ambition 
to  put  some  fragments  of  these  into  English 
verse.  Most  of  them  are  highly  complimentary. 
It  is  true  that  Ronsard  was  one  of  those  who 
could  not  appreciate  a  "  matou."  He  sang  or 
said  : — 

There  is  no  man  now  living  anywhere 

Who  hates  cats  with  a  deeper  hate  than  I ; 

I  hate  their  eyes,  their  heads,  the  way  they  stare, 
^nd  when  I  see  one  come,  I  turn  and  fy. 

But  among  the  pre'cieuses  of  the  seventeenth 
century  there  was  much  more  appreciation. 
Mme.  Deshoulieres  wrote  a  whole  series  of 
songs  and  couplets  about  her  cat,  Grisette.  In 
a  letter  to  her  husband,  referring  to  the  atten- 
tions she  herself  receives  from  admirers,  she 
adds  : — 

Deshoulieres  cares  not  for  the  smart 
Her  bright  eyes  cause,  disdainful  hussy, 


Cats  179 

^ut,  like  a  mouse,  her  idle  heart 
Is  captured  by  a  pussy. 

Much  better  than  these  is  the  sonnet  on  the 
cat  of  the  Duchess  of  Lesdiguieres,  with  its 
admirable  hne  : — 

Chatte  pour  tout  le  monde,  et  pour  les  chats  tigresse. 

A  fugitive  epistle  by  Scarron,  delightfully 
turned,  is  too  long  to  be  quoted  here,  nor  can  I 
pause  to  cite  the  rondeau  which  the  Duchess  of 
Maine  addressed  to  her  favourite.  But  she  sup- 
plemented it  as  follows  : — 

tMy  pretty  puss,  my  solace  and  delight^ 

To  celebrate  thy  loveliness  aright 

I  ought  to  call  to  life  the  bard  zvho  sung 

Of  Lesbia's  sparrow  zvith  so  sweet  a  tongue  ; 

But  'tis  in  vain  to  summon  here  to  me 

So  famous  a  dead  persofiage  as  he, 

Ana  you  must  ta\e  contentedly  to-day 

This  poor  rondeau  that  C^pid  wafts  your  way. 

When  this  cat  died  the  Duchess  was  too  much 
affected  to  write  its  epitaph  herself,  and  accord- 
ingly it  was  done  for  her,  in  the  following  style, 
by  La  Mothe  le  Vayer,  the  author  of  the  Dia- 
logues : — 


i8o  Gossip  in  a  Library 

Puss  passer-hy,  within  this  simple  tomb 

Lies  07ie  whose  life  fell  Atropos  hath  shred ; 
The  happiest  cat  on  earth  hath  heard  her  doom, 

And  sleeps  for  ever  in  a  marble  bed. 
Alas  I  what  long  delicious  days  Tve  seen  ! 

O  cats  of  Egypt,  my  illustrious  sires, 
You  who  on  altars,  bound  with  garlands  green, 

Have  melted  hearts,  and  kindled  fond  desires, — 
Hymns  in  your  praise  were  paid,  and  offerings  too, 

Tiut  I'm  not  jealous  of  those  rights  divine, 
Since  Ludovisa  loved  me,  close  and  true, 

Tour  ancient  glory  was  less  proud  than  mine. 
To  live  a  simple  pussy  by  her  side 
Was  nobler  far  than  to  be  deifed. 

To  these  and  other  tributes  Moncrif  adds 
idyls  and  romances  of  his  own,  while  regret- 
ting that  it  never  occurred  to  Theocritus  to 
write  a  bcrgcrie  de  chats.  He  tells  stories  of 
blameless  pussies  beloved  by  Fontanelle  and  La 
Fontaine,  and  quotes  Marot  in  praise  of  "  the 
green-eyed  Venus."  But  he  tears  himself  away 
at  last  from  all  these  historical  reminiscences, 
and  in  his  eleventh  letter  he  deals  with  cats  as 
they  are.  We  hasten  as  lightly  as  possible 
over  a  story  of  the  disinterestedness  of  a  feline 
Ileloisc,  which   is  too  pathetic  for  a  nineteenth- 


Cats  i8i 

century  ear.  But  we  may  repeat  the  touching 
anecdote  of  Bayle's  friend,  Mile.  Dupuy.  This 
lady  excelled  to  a  surprising  degree  in  playing 
the  harp,  and  she  attributed  her  excellence  in 
this  accomplishment  to  her  cat,  whose  critical 
taste  was  only  equalled  by  his  close  attention 
to  Mile.  Dupuy's  performance.  She  felt  that 
she  owed  so  much  to  this  cat,  under  whose 
care  her  reputation  for  skill  on  the  harp  had 
become  universal,  that  when  she  died  she  left 
him,  in  her  will,  one  agreeable  house  in  town 
and  another  in  the  country.  To  this  bequest 
she  added  a  revenue  sufficient  to  supply  all  the 
requirements  of  a  well-bred  tom-cat,  and  at  the 
same  time  she  left  pensions  to  certain  persons 
whose  duty  it  should  be  to  wait  upon  him. 
Her  ignoble  family  contested  the  will,  and 
there  was  a  long  suit.  Moncrif  gives  a  hand- 
some double-plate  illustration  of  this  incident. 
Mile.  Dupuy,  sadly  wasted  by  illness,  is  seen 
in  bed,  with  her  cat  in  her  arms,  dictating  her 
will  to  the  family  lawyer  in  a  periwig ;  her 
physician  is  also  present. 

This  leads  me  to  speak  of  the  illustrations  to 


1 82  Gossip  in  a  Library 

Les  Chats,  which  greatly  add  to  its  value.  They 
were  engraved  by  Otten  from  original  drawings 
by  Coypel,  In  another  edition  the  same  draw- 
ings are  engraved  by  Count  Caylus.  Some  of 
them  are  of  a  charming  absurdity.  One,  a 
double  plate,  represents  a  tragedy  acted  by  cats 
on  the  roof  of  a  fashionable  house.  The  actors 
are  tricked  out  in  the  most  magnificent  feathers 
and  furbelows,  but  the  audience  consists  of 
common  cats.  Cupid  sits  above,  with  his  bow 
and  fluttering  wings.  Another  plate  shows  the 
mausoleum  of  the  Duchess  of  Lesdiguieres'  cat, 
with  a  marble  pussy  of  heroic  size,  upon  a 
marble  pillow,  in  a  grove  of  poplars.  Another 
is  a  medal  to  "Chat  Noir  premier,  ne  en  1725," 
with  the  proud  inscription,  "  Knowing  to  whom 
I  belong,  I  am  aware  of  my  value."  The  profile 
within  is  that  of  as  haughty  a  tom  as  ever  shook 
out  his  whiskers  in  a  lady's  boudoir.. 


SMART'S    POEMS 


Smart's  Poems 

Poems  on  Several  Occasions.  By  Christopher  Smart,  yJ.M.,  Felloiv 
of  Pemhro\e-Hall,  Cambridge,  London  :  Printed  for  the  Author, 
by  TV.  St'rahan  ;  And  sold  by  f.  Neivbery,  at  the  Bible  and  Sun,  in 
St.  PauPs  Churchyard.      <afDCCLlI. 

1  HE  third  section  of  Mr.  Browning's  Par- 
leyings  with  certain  People  of  Importance  in 
their  Day  has  drawn  general  attention  to  a 
Cambridge  poet  of  whom  little  has  hitherto  been 
known,  Christopher  Smart,  once  fellow  of  Pem- 
broke College.  It  may  be  interesting,  therefore, 
to  supply  some  sketch  of  the  events  of  his  life, 
and  of  the  particular  poem  which  Mr.  Browning 
has  aptly  compared  to  a  gorgeous  chapel  lying 
perdue  in  a  dull  old  commonplace  mansion.  No 
one  can  afford  to  be  entirely  indifferent  to  the 
author  of  verses  which  one  of  the  greatest  of 
modern  writers  has  declared  to  be  unequalled  of 
their  kind  between  Milton  and  Keats. 


1 86  Gossip  in  a  Lib 


rary 


What  has  hitherto  been  known  of  the  facts  of 
Smart's  life  has  been  founded  on  the  anonymous 
biography  prefixed  to  the  two- volume  Reading 
edition  of  his  works,  published  in  1791.  The 
copy  of  this  education  in  Trinity  Library  be- 
longed to  Dr.  Farmer,  and  contains  these  words 
in  his  handwriting  "  From  the  Editor,  Francis 
Newbery,  Esq.  ;  the  Life  by  Mr,  Hunter."  As 
this  Newbery  was  the  son  of  Smart's  half- 
brother-in-law  and  literary  employer,  it  may  be 
taken  for  granted  that  the  information  given  in 
these  volumes  is  authoritative.  We  may  there- 
fore believe  it  to  be  correct  that  Smart  was  born 
(as  he  himself  tells  us,  in  The  Hop  Garden) 
at  Shipbourne,  in  Kent,  on  the  nth  of  April 
1722,  that  his  father  was  steward  to  the  noble- 
man who  afterwards  became  Earl  of  Darlington, 
and  that  he  was  "  discerned  and  patronised  "  by 
the  Duchess  of  Cleveland.  This  great  lady,  we 
are  left  in  doubt  for  what  reason,  carried  her 
complaisance  so  far  as  to  allow  the  future  pcet 
£Afi  a  year  until  her  death.  In  a  painfully  ful- 
some ode  to  another  member  of  the  Raby  Castle 
family.  Smart  records  the  generosity  of  the  dead 


Smart's  Poems  187 

in  order  to  stimulate  that  of  the  living,  and  oddly 
remarks  that 

dignity  itself  restrains 
'By  condescension  s  silken  reins, 

While  you  the  lowly  CMuse  upraise. 

Smart  passed,  already  "  an  infant  bard,"  from 
what  he  calls  "  the  splendour  in  retreat  "  of  Raby 
Castle,  to  Durham  School,  and  in  his  eighteenth 
year  was  admitted  of  Pembroke  Hall,  October 
30*  1739-  His  biographer  expressly  states 
that  his  allowance  from  home  was  scanty,  and 
that  his  chief  dependence,  until  he  derived  an 
income  from  his  college,  was  on  the  bounty  of 
the  Duchess  of  Cleveland. 

From  this  point  I  am  able  to  supply  a  certain 
amount  of  information  with  regard  to  the  poet's 
college  life  which  is  entirely  new,  and  which  is 
not,  I  think,  without  interest.  My  friend  Mr.  R.  A. 
Neil  has  been  so  kind  as  to  admit  me  to  the 
Treasury  at  Pembroke,  and  in  his  company  I 
have  had  the  advantage  of  searching  the  con- 
temporary records  of  the  college.  What  we 
were  lucky  enough  to  discover  may  here  be  briefly 
summarised.      The  earliest   mention  of  Smart  is 


1 88  Gossip  in  a  Library- 

dated  1740,  and  refers  to  the  rooms  assigned  to 
him  as  an  undergraduate.  In  January  1743,  we 
find  him  taking  his  B.A.,  and  in  July  of  the 
same  year  he  is  elected  scholar.  As  is  correctly 
stated  in  his  Life  he  became  a  fellow  of  Pem- 
broke on  the  3rd  of  July  1745.  That  he 
showed  no  indication  as  yet  of  that  disturbance 
of  brain  and  instability  of  character  which  so 
painfully  distinguished  him  a  little  later  on,  is 
proved  by  the  fact  that  on  tlie  loth  of  October 
1745,  Smart  was  chosen  to  be  Praelector  in 
Philosophy,  and  Keeper  of  the  Common  Chest. 
In  1746  he  was  re-elected  to  those  offices,  and 
also  made  Praelector  in  Rhetoric.  In  1747  he 
was  not  chosen  to  hold  any  such  college  situa- 
tions, no  doubt  from  the  growing  extravagance 
of  his  conduct. 

In  November  1747,  Smart  was  in  parlous 
case.  Gray  complains  of  his  "lies,  impertinence 
and  ingratitude,"  and  describes  him  as  confined 
to  his  room,  lest  his  creditors  should  snap  him 
up.  He  gives  a  melancholy  impression  of 
Smart's  moral  and  physical  state,  but  hastens  to 
add  "  not  that  I,  nor  any  other  mortal,  pity  him." 


Smart's  Poems  189 


The  records  of  the  Treasury  at  Pembroke  supply 
evidence  that  the  members  of  the  college  now 
made  a  great  effort  to  restore  one  of  whose  talents 
it  is  certain  they  were  proud.  In  1748  we  find 
Smart  proposed  for  catechist,  a  proof  that  he  had, 
at  all  events  for  the  moment,  turned  over  a  new 
leaf.  Probably,  but  for  fresh  relapses,  he  would 
now  have  taken  orders.  His  allusions  to  college 
life  are  singularly  ungracious.     He  calls  Pembroke 

this  servile  cell. 
Where  discipline  ajid  dulness  dwell, 

and  commiserates  a  captive  eagle  as  being  doomed 
in  the  college  courts  to  watch 

scholastic  pride 
Take  his  precise,  pedantic  stride  ; 

words  which  painfully  remind  us  of  Gray's  re- 
ported manner  of  enjoying  a  constitutional.  It 
is  certain  that  there  was  considerable  friction 
between  these  two  men  of  genius,  and  Gray 
roundly  prophesied  that  Smart  would  find  his 
way  to  gaol  or  to  Bedlam.  Both  alternatives  of 
this  prediction  were  fulfilled,  and  in  October 
175 1,  Graj'  cutly  remarks  :    "Smart  sets  out  for 


190  Gossip  in  a  Library 

Bedlam."  Of  this  event  we  find  curious  evi- 
dence in  the  Treasury.  "October  12,  175 1 — 
Ordered  that  Mr.  Smart,  being  obliged  to  be 
absent,  there  will  be  allowed  him  in  lieu  of 
commons  for  the  year  ended  Michaelmas,  175 1, 
the  sum  of  iJ^io."  There  can  be  little  question 
that  Smart's  conduct  and  condition  became  more 
and  more  unsatisfactory.  This  particular  visit 
to  a  madhouse  was  probably  brief,  but  it  was 
possibly  not  the  first  and  was  soon  repeated ; 
for  in  1749  and  in  1752  there  are  similar  entries 
reco: ding  the  fact  that  "  Mr.  Smart,  being  obliged 
to  be  absent,"  certain  allowances  were  paid  by 
the  college  "  in  consideration  of  his  circum- 
stances." The  most  curious  discovery,  however, 
which  we  have  been  able  to  make  is  recorded  in 
the  following  entry  : — 

"Nov.  27,  1753 — Ordered  that  the  divi- 
dend assigned  to  Mr.  Smart  be  deposited  in  the 
Treasury  till  the  Society  be  satisfied  that  he  has 
a  right  to  the  same  ;  it  being  credibly  reported 
that  he  has  been  married  for  some  time,  and  that 
notice  be  sent  to  Mr.  Smart  of  his  dividend 
being  detained." 


Smart's  Poems  191 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  Smart  was  by  this  time 
married  to  a  relative  of  Newbery,  the  pub- 
lisher, for  whom  he  was  doing  hack  work  in 
London.  He  had,  however,  formed  the  habit  of 
writing  the  Seatonian  prize  poem,  which  he  had 
already  gained  four  times,  in  1750,  175 1,  1752, 
and  1753.  He  seems  to  have  clutched  at  the 
distinction  which  he  brought  on  his  college  by 
these  poems  as  the  last  straw  by  which  to  keep 
his  fellowship,  and,  singular  to  say,  he  must 
have  succeeded ;  for  on  the  i6th  of  January 
1754,  this  order  was  recorded  : 

"  That  Mr.  Smart  have  leave  to  keep  his 
name  in  the  college  books  without  any  expense, 
so  long  as  he  continues  to  write  for  the  premium 
left  by  Mr.  Seaton." 

How  long  this  inexpensive  indulgence  lasted 
does  not  seem  to  be  known.  Smart  gained  the 
Seatonian  prize  in  1755,  having  apparently  failed 
in  1754,  and  then  appears  no  more  in  Pembroke 
records. 

The  circumstance  of  his  having  made  Cam- 
bridge too  hot  to  hold  him  seems  to  have  pulled 
Smart's  loose  faculties   together.      The  next  five 


192  Gossip  in  a  Library 

years  were  probably  the  sanest  and  the  busiest 
in  his  life.  He  l^ad  collected  his  scattered  odes 
and  ballads,  and  published  them,  with  his  am- 
bitious georgic,  The  Hop  Garden,  in  the  hand- 
some quarto  before  us.  Among  the  seven 
hundred  subscribers  to  this  venture  we  find 
"  Mr.  Voltaire,  historiographer  of  France,"  and 
M.  Roub'Iliac,  the  great  statuary,  besides  such 
English  celebrities  as  Gray,  Collins,  Richard- 
son, Savage,  Charles  Avison,  Garrick,  and 
Mason.  The  kind  reception  of  this  work 
awakened  in  the  poet  an  inordinate  vanity,  which 
found  expression,  in  1753,  in  that  extraordinary 
effusion,  The  Hilliad,  an  attempt  to  present  Dr. 
John  Hill  in  such  amber  as  Pope  held  at  the 
command  of  his  satiric  passion.  But  these 
efforts,  and  an  annual  Seatcnian,  were  ill  adapted 
to  support  a  poet  who  had  recently  appended  a  wife 
and  family  to  a  phenomenal  appetite  for  strong 
waters,  and  who,  moreover,  had  just  been  de- 
prived of  his  stipend  as  a  fellow.  Smart 
descended  into  Grub  Street,  and  bound  himself 
over,  hand  and  foot,  to  be  the  serf  of  such  men 
as   the   publisher   Newbery,    who  was   none   the 


Smart's  Poems  193 

milder  master  for  being  his  relative.  It  was  not 
long  after,  doubtless,  that  Smart  fell  lower  still, 
and  let  himself  out  on  a  lease  for  ninety-nine 
years,  to  toil  for  a  set  pittance  in  the  garrets  of 
Gardner's  shop  ;  and  it  was  about  this  time,  1754, 
that  the  Rev.  T.  Tyers  was  introduced  to  Smart  by 
a  friend  who  had  more  sympathy  with  his  frailties 
than  Gray  had,  namely,  Dr.  Samuel  Johnson. 

After  a  world  of  vicissitudes,  which  are  very 
uncomfortable  reading,  about  1761  Smart  be- 
came violently  insane  once  more  and  was  shut 
up  again  in  Bedlam.  Dr.  Johnson,  commenting 
on  this  period  of  the  poet's  life,  told  Dr.  Burney 
that  Smart  grew  fat  when  he  was  in  the  mad- 
house, where  he  dug  in  the  garden,  and  Johnson 
added:  "I  did  not  think  he  ought  to  be  shut 
up.  His  infirmities  were  not  noxious  to  society. 
He  insisted  on  people  praying  with  him  ;  and  I'd 
as  lief  pray  with  Kit  Smart  as  with  any  one 
else.  Another  charge  was  that  he  did  not  love 
clean  linen ;  and  I  have  no  passion  for  it." 
When  Boswell  paid  Johnson  his  memorable  first 
visit  in  1 763,  Smart  had  recently  been  released 
from  Bedlam,  and  Johnson  naturally  spoke  of  him. 

N 


194  Gossip  in  a  Library 

He  said  :  "  My  poor  friend  Smart  showed  the 
disturbance  of  his  mind  by  faUing  upon  his 
knees  and  saying  his  prayers  in  the  street,  or  in 
any  other  unusual  place,"  Gray  about  the  same 
time  reports  that  money  is  being  collected  to 
help  "  poor  Smart,"  not  for  the  first  time,  since 
in  January  1759,  Gray  had  written  :  "  Poor 
Smart  is  not  dead,  as  was  said,  and  Mci^ope  is 
acted  for  his  benefit  this  week,"  with  the  Guar- 
dian, a  farce  which  Garrick  had  kindly  composed 
for  that  occasion. 

It  was  in  1763,  immediately  after  Smart's 
release,  that  the  now  famous  Song  to  David  was 
published.  A  long  and  interesting  letter  in  the 
correspondence  of  Hawkesworth,  dated  October 
1764,  gives  a  pleasant  idea  of  Smart  restored  to 
cheerfulness  and  placed  "  with  very  decent  people 
in  a  house,  most  delightfully  situated,  with  a  ter- 
race that  overlooks  St.  James's  Park."  But  this 
relief  was  only  temporary ;  Smart  fell  back  pre- 
sently into  drunkenness  and  debt,  and  was  happily 
relieved  by  death  in  1770,  in  his  forty- eighth  year, 
at  the  close  of  a  career  as  melancholy  as  any 
recorded  in  the  chronicles  of  literature. 


Smart's  Poems  195 

Save  for  one  single  lyric,  that  glows  with  all 
the  flush  and  bloom  of  Eden,  Smart  would  take 
but  a  poor  place  on  the  English  Parnassus.  His 
odes  and  ballads,  his  psalms  and  satires,  his 
masques  and  his  georgics,  are  not  bad,  but  they 
are  mediocre.  Here  and  there  the  very  careful 
reader  may  come  across  lines  and  phrases  that 
display  the  concealed  author  of  the  Song  to 
David,  such  as  the  following,  from  an  excessively 
tiresome  ode  to  Dr.  Webster  : 

When  Israel's  host,  with  all  their  stores, 

Tassed  through  the  ruby-tinctared  crystal  shores, 

The  wilderness  of  waters  and  of  land. 

But  these  are  rare.  His  odes  are  founded  upon 
those  of  Gray,  and  the  best  that  can  be  said  of 
them  is  that  if  they  do  not  quite  rise  to  the 
frozen  elegance  of  Akenside,  they  seldom  sink 
to  the  flaccidity  of  Mason.  Never,  for  one  con- 
secutive stanza  or  stroke,  do  they  approach  Collins 
or  Gray  in  delicacy  or  power.  But  the  Song  to 
David — the  lyric  in  516  lines  which  Smart  is  so 
absurdly  fabled  to  have  scratched  with  a  key  on 
the  white-washed  walls  of  his  cell — this   was  a 


196  Gossip  in  a  Library 

portent  of  beauty  and  originality.  Strange  to 
say,  it  was  utterl}'  neglected  when  it  appeared, 
and  the  editor  of  the  1791  edition  of  Smart's 
works  expressly  omitted  to  print  it  on  the  ground 
that  it  bore  too  many  "  melancholy  proofs  of  the 
estrangement  of  Smart's  mind  "  to  be  fit  for  re- 
publication. It  became  rare  to  the  very  verge  of 
extinction,  and  is  now  scarcely  to  be  found  in  its 
entirety  save  in  a  pretty  reprint  of  18 19,  itself 
now  rare,  due  to  the  piety  of  a  Rev.  R.  Harvey. 
It  is  obvious  that  Smart's  contemporaries  and 
immediate  successors  looked  upon  the  Song  to 
David  as  the  work  of  a  hopelessly  deranged 
person.  In  1763  poetry  had  to  be  very  sane 
indeed  to  be  attended  to.  The  year  preceding 
had  welcomed  the  Shipivrcck  of  Falconer,  the 
year  to  follow  would  welcome  Goldsmith's  Travel- 
ler and  Grainger's  Sugar  Cane,  works  of  various 
merit,  but  all  eminently  sane.  In  1763  Shenstone 
was  dying  and  Rogers  was  being  born.  The 
tidy,  spruce  and  discreet  poetry  of  the  eighteenth 
century  was  passing  into  its  final  and  most  pro- 
nounced stage.  The  Song  to  David,  with  its 
bold  mention  of  unfamiliar  things,  its  warm  and 


Smart's  Poems  197 

highly  coloured  phraseology,  its  daring  adjectives 

and  unexampled   adverbs,  was  an   outrage  upon 

taste,  and  one  which  was  best   accounted  for  by 

the  tap  of  the  forefinger  on   the  forehead.      No 

doubt  the  poem  presented  and  still  may   present 

legitimate  difficulties.       Here,  for  instance,  is  a 

stanza    which   it    is  not   for    those   who   run    to 

read : 

Increasing  days  their  reign  exalt, 
tJ^or  in  the  pink^  and  mottled  vault 

The  opposing  spirits  tilt  ; 
t^nd,  by  the  coasting  reader  spfd. 
The  silver  lings  and  crusions  glide 

For  Adoration  gilt. 

This  is  charming  ;  but  if  it  were  in  one  of  the 
tongues  of  the  heathen  we  should  get  Dr.  Verrall 
to  explain  it  away.  Poor  Mr.  Harvey,  the  editor 
of  1 8 19,  being  hopelessly  puzzled  by  "silver- 
lings,"  the  only  dictionary  meaning  of  which  is 
"  shekels,"  explained  "  crusions "  to  be  some 
other  kind  of  money,  from  Kpovaic;.  But  "  cru- 
sions" are  golden  carp,  and  when  I  was  a  child 
the  Devonshire  fishermen  used  to  call  the  long 
white   fish    with    argent    stripes    (whose   proper 


198  Gossip  in  a  Library 

name,  I  th'nk,  is  the  launce)  a  silverling.  The 
"coasting  leader"  is  the  courteous  reader  when 
walking  along  the  coast,  and  what  he  sees  are 
silver  fish  and  gold  fish,  adoring  the  Lord  by  the 
beauty  of  their  scales.  The  Song  to  David  is 
cryptic  to  a  very  high  degree,  but  I  think  there 
are  no  lines  in  it  which  patient  reflection  will  not 
solve.  On  every  page  are  stanzas  the  verbal 
splendour  of  which  no  lover  of  poetry  will  ques- 
tion, and  lines  which  will  always,  to  me  at  least, 
retain  an  echo  of  that  gusto  with  which  I  have 
heard  Mr.  Browning's  strong  voice  recite  them : 

The  wealthy  crops  of  whitening  rice 

^  O^ongst  thyne  woods  and  groves  of  spice ^ 

For  Adoration  grow  ; 
And,  mar  s  ha  IP  d  in  the  fenced  /and, 
The  peaches  and  pomegranates  stand. 

Where  wild  carnations  blow. 

The  laurels  with  the  winter  strive  ; 
The  crocus  burnishes  alive 

Upon  the  snow-clad  earth  ; 
%  ^  %  ^  ?& 

For  Adoration  ripening  canes 
t^nd  cocoa's  purest  milk  detains 

The  Tvestern  pilgrim's  staff; 


Smart's  Poems  199 

Where  rain  in  clasping  boughs  inclosed, 
tdnd  vines  with  oranges  dispos'd, 
Embower  the  social  laugh. 

For  J d oration,  beyond  match, 
The  scholar  bulfnch  aims  to  catch 

The  soft  flute's  ivory  touch  ; 
tAnd,  careless  on  the  hazle  spray, 
The  daring  redbreast  keeps  at  bay 

The  damsePs  greedy  clutch. 

To  quote  at  further  length  from  so  fascinating,  so 
divine  a  poem,  would  be  "  purpHng  too  much  my 
mere  grey  argument."  Mr.  Browning's  praise 
ought  to  send  every  one  to  the  original.  But 
here  is  one  more  stanza  that  I  cannot  resist 
copying,  because  it  seems  so  pathetically  ap- 
plicable to  Smart  himself  as  a  man,  and  to  the 
one  exquisite  poem  which  was  "  the  more  than 
Abishag  of  his  age  "  : 

His  muse,  bright  angel  of  his  verse, 
^ives  balm  for  all  the  thorns  that  pierce^ 

For  all  the  pangs  that  rage  ; 
'Blest  light,  still  gaining  on  the  gloom. 
The  more  than  CMichal  of  his  bloom, 

The  Abishag  of  his  age. 


POMPEY    THE    LITTLE 


Pompey  the  Little 

The  History  of  Pomfev  the  Little  ;  or,  the  Life  and  ^d-ventures  of 
a  Lap-Tiog.  London :  Trinted  for  cvJf.  Cooper,  at  the  globe  in 
Taternoster  %ort>,  '^^^TDCCLL 

In  February  175 1  the  town,  which  had  been 
suffering  from  rather  a  dreary  spell  since  the 
acceptable  publication  of  Tojii  Jones,  was  re- 
freshed and  enlivened  by  the  simultaneous  issue 
of  two  delightfully  scandalous  productions,  emi- 
nently well  adapted  to  occupy  the  polite  conver- 
sation of  ladies  at  drums  and  at  the  card-table. 
Of  these  one  was  The  Memoirs  of  a  Lady  of 
Quality,  so  oddly  foisted  by  Smollett  into  the 
third  volume  of  his  Peregrine  Pickle.  This  was 
recognised  at  once  as  being  the  work  of  the  frail 
and  adventurous  Lady  Vane,  about  whom  so 
many  strange  stories  were  already  current  in 
society.      The  other  puzzled   the  gossips   much 


204  Gossip  In  a  Library 

longer,  and  it  seems  to  have  been  the  poet 
Gray  who  first  discovered  the  authorship  of 
Pompey  the  Little.  Gray  wrote  to  tell  Horace 
Walpole  who  had  written  the  anonymous  book 
that  everybody  was  talking  about,  adding  that 
he  had  discovered  the  secret  through  the 
author's  own  carelessness,  three  of  the  charac- 
ters being  taken  from  a  comedy  shown  him  by 
a  young  clergyman  at  Magdalen  College, 
Cambridge.  This  was  the  Rev.  Francis  Coven- 
try, then  some  twenty-five  years  of  age.  The 
discovery  of  the  authorship  made  Coventry  a  nine- 
days  hero,  while  his  book  went  into  a  multitude 
of  editions.  It  was  one  of  the  most  successful 
jeux  cCesprit  of  the  eighteenth  century. 

The  copy  of  the  first  edition  of  Pompey  the 
Little,  which  lies  before  me,  contains  an  excellent 
impression  of  the  frontispiece  by  Louis  Boitard, 
the  fashionable  engraver-designer,  whose  print 
of  the  Ranelagh  Rotunda  is  so  much  sought 
after  by  amateurs.  It  represents  a  curtain 
drawn  aside  to  reveal  a  velvet  cushion,  on 
which  sits  a  graceful  little  Italian  lap-dog,  with 
pendant  silky  ears  and   sleek  sides   spotted  like 


Pompey  the  Little  205 

the  pard.  This  is  Pompey  the  Little,  whose 
life  and  adventures  the  book  proceeds  to  re- 
count. "  Pompey^  the  son  of  Julio  and  Phyllis, 
was  born  a.d.  1735,  at  Bologna  in  Italy,  a  place 
famous  for  lap-dogs  and  sausages."  At  an  early 
age  he  was  carried  away  from  the  boudoir  of  his 
Italian  mistress  by  Hillario,  an  English  gentle- 
man illustrious  for  his  gallantries,  who  brought 
him  to  London.  The  rest  of  the  history  is  really 
a  chain  of  social  episodes,  each  closed  by  the 
incident  that  Pompey  becomes  the  property  of 
some  fresh  person.  In  this  way  we  find  our- 
selves in  a  dozen  successive  scenes,  each  strongly 
contrasted  with  the  others.  It  is  the  art  of  the 
author  that  he  knows  exactly  how  much  to  tell 
us  without  wearying  our  attention,  and  is  able  to 
make  the  transition  to  the  next  scene  a  plausible 
one. 

There  is  low  life  as  well  as  high  life  in 
Pompey  the  Little,  sketches  after  Hogarth,  no 
less  than  studies  a  la  Watteau.  But  the  high 
life  is  by  far  the  better  described.  Francis 
Coventry  was  the  cousin  of  the  Earl  of  that 
name,   he  who  married  the   beautiful   and  silly 


2o6  Gossip  In  a  Library 

Maria  Gunning.  When  he  painted  the  ladies 
of  quality  at  their  routs  and  drums,  masque- 
rades, and  hurly-burlies,  he  knew  what  he  was 
talking  about,  for  this  was  the  life  he  himself 
led,  when  he  was  not  at  college.  Even  at 
Cambridge,  he  was  under  the  dazzling  influence 
of  his  famous  and  fashionable  cousin,  Henry 
Coventry,  fellow  of  the  same  college  of  Mag- 
dalen, author  of  the  polite  Philemon  to  Hydaspes 
dialogues,  and  the  latest  person  who  dressed  well 
in  the  University.  The  embroidered  coats  of 
Henry  Coventry,  stiff  with  gold  lace,  his 
"  most  prominent  Roman  nose  "  and  air  of  being 
much  a  gentleman,  were  not  lost  on  the  younger 
member  of  the  family,  who  seems  to  paint  him 
slyly  in  his  portrait  of  Mr.  Williams. 

The  great  charm  of  Pompey  the  Little  to  con- 
temporaries was,  of  course,  the  fact  that  it  was 
supposed  to  be  a  roman  a  clef.  The  Countess 
of  Bute  hastened  to  send  out  a  copy  of  it  to 
her  mother  in  Italy,  and  Lady  Mary  Wortley 
Montagu  did  not  hesitate  to  discover  the  like- 
nesses of  various  dear  friends  of  hers.  She 
found    it   impossible   to  go  to  bed  till  she  had 


Pompey  the  Little  207 

finished  it.  She  was  charmed,  and  she  tells 
Lady  Bute,  what  the  curious  may  now  read 
with  great  satisfaction,  that  it  was  "  a  real  and 
exact  representation  of  life,  as  it  is  now  acted  in 
London."  What  is  odd  is  that  Lady  Mary 
identified,  with  absolute  complacency,  the  por- 
trait of  herself,  as  Mrs.  Qualmsick,  that  hysterical 
lady  with  whom  "  it  was  not  unusual  for  her  to 
fancy  herself  a  Glass  bottle,  a  Tea-pot,  a  Hay- 
rick, or  a  Field  of  Turnips."  Instead  of  being 
angry.  Lady  Mary  screamed  with  laughter  at  the 
satire  of  her  own  whimsies,  of  how  "  Red  was 
too  glaring  for  her  Eyes ;  Green  put  her  in 
Mind  of  Willows,  and  made  her  melancholic ; 
Blue  remembered  her  of  her  dear  Sister,  who 
had  died  ten  Years  before  in  a  blue  Bed."  In 
fact,  all  this  fun  seems,  for  the  moment  at  least, 
to  have  cured  the  original  Mrs.  Qualmsick  of 
her  whimsies,  and  her  remarks  on  Pompey  the 
Little  are  so  good-natured  that  we  may  well 
forgive  her  for  the  pleasure  with  which  she 
recognised  Lady  Townshend  in  Lady  Tempest 
and  the  Countess  of  Orford  in  the  pedantic  and 
deistical    Lady    Sophister,    who    rates   the  phy- 


2o8  Gossip  in  a  Library 

sicians  for  their  theology,  and  will  not  be  bled 
by  any  man  who  accepts  the  doctrine  of  the 
immortality  of  the  soul. 

Coventry's  romance  does  not  deserve  the 
entire  neglect  into  which  it  has  fallen.  It  is 
sprightly  and  graceful  from  the  first  page  to 
the  last.  Not  written,  indeed,  by  a  man  of 
genius,  it  is  yet  the  work  of  a  very  refined  ob- 
server, who  has  been  modern  enough  to  catch 
the  tone  of  the  new  school  of  novelists.  The 
writer  owes  much  to  Fielding,  who  yet  does  not 
escape  without  a  flap  from  one  of  Pompey's 
silken  ears.  Coventry's  manner  may  be  best 
exemplified  by  one  of  his  own  bright  passages 
of  satire.  This  notion  of  a  man  of  quality, 
that  no  place  can  be  full  that  is  not  crowded 
with  people  of  fashion,  is  not  new,  but  it  is 
deliciously  expressed.  Aurora  has  come  back 
from  Bath,  and  assures  the  Count  that  she  has 
had  a  pleasant  season  there  : 

"  You  amaze  me,"  cries  the  Count ;  "  Impos- 
sible, Madam  !  How  can  it  be,  Ladies  ?  I  had 
Letters  from  Lord  Monkeynian  and  Lady  Betty 
Scornful   assuring    me  that,   except   yourselves. 


Pompey  the  Little  209 

there  were  not  three  human  Creatures  in  the 
Place.  Let  me  see,  I  have  Lady  Bettys  Letter 
in  my  Pocket,  I  beheve,  at  this  Moment.  Oh 
no,  upon  Recollection,  I  put  it  this  Morning  into 
my  Cabinet,  where  I  preserve  all  my  Letters  of 
QuaHty."  Aurora,  smothering  a  Laugh  as  well 
as  she  could,  said  she  was  extremely  obliged 
to  Lord  Monkeytnan  and  Lady  Bdty,  for  vouch- 
safing to  rank  her  and  her  Sister  in  the  Catalogue 
of  human  Beings.  "  But,  surely,"  added  she,  "they 
must  have  been  asleep,  both  of  them,  when  they 
wrote  their  Letters  ;  for  the  Bath  was  extremely 
full."  "  Full  1 "  cries  the  Count,  interrupting 
her ;  "  Oh,  Madam,  that  is  very  possible,  and 
yet  there  might  be  no  Company — that  is,  none 
of  us  ;  No-body  that  one  knows.  For  as  to  all 
the  Tramontanes  that  come  by  the  cross  Post, 
we  never  reckon  them  as  anything  but  Monsters 
in  human  Shape,  that  serve  to  fill  up  the  Stage 
of  Life,  like  Cyphers  in  a  play.  For  Instance, 
you  often  see  an  awkward  Girl,  who  has  sewed 
a  Tail  to  a  Gown,  and  pinned  two  Lappits  to  a 
Night-cap,  come  running  headlong  into  the 
Rooms  with  a  wild,  frosty  Face,  as  if  she  was 


210  Gossip  in  a  Library 

just  come  from  feeding  Poultry  in  her  Father's 
Chicken- Yard.  Or  you  see  a  Booby  Squire, 
with  a  Head  resembhng  a  Stone  ball  over  a 
Gate-post.  Now,  it  would  be  the  most  ridicu- 
lous Thing  in  Life  to  call  such  People  Company. 
'Tis  the  Want  of  Titles,  and  not  the  Want  of 
Faces,  that  makes  a  Place  empty." 

There  are  indications,  which  I  think  have 
escaped  the  notice  of  Goldsmith's  editors,  that 
the  author  of  the  Citizen  of  the  World  conde- 
scended to  take  some  of  his  ideas  from  Pompcy 
the  Little.  In  Count  Tag,  the  impoverished 
little  fop  who  fancies  himself  a  man  of  quality, 
and  who  begs  pardon  of  people  who  accost  him 
in  the  Park — "  but  really.  Lady  Betty  or  Lady 
Mary  is  just  entering  the  Mall," — we  have  the 
direct  prototype  of  Beau  Tibbs  ;  while  Mr. 
Rhymer,  the  starving  poet,  whose  furniture 
consists  of  "  the  first  Act  of  a  Comedy,  a  Pair 
of  yellow  Stays,  two  political  Pamphlets,  a  plate 
of  Bread-and-butter,  three  dirty  Night-caps,  and 
a  Volume  of  Miscellany  Poems,"  is  a  figure 
wonderfully  like  that  of  Goldsmith  himself,  as 
Dr.  Percy  found   him  eight  years   later,    in   that 


'om 


pcy 


the  L'ttle  211 


"wretched,  dirty  room,"  at  the  top  of  Breakneck 
Steps,  Green  Arbour  Court,  The  whole  concep- 
tion of  that  Dickens-hke  scene,  in  which  it  is 
described  how  Lady  Frippery  had  a  drum  in 
spite  of  all  local  difficulties,  is  much  more  in 
the  humour  of  Goldsmith  than  in  that  of  any  of 
Coventry's  immediate  contemporaries. 

Strangely  enough,  in  spite  ofthe  great  success  of 
his  one  book,  the  author  o{ Pompcy  the  Little  never 
tried  to  repeat  it.  He  became  perpetual  curate 
of  Edgware,  and  died  in  the  neighbouring 
village  of  Stanmore  Parva  a  few  years  after 
the  publication  of  his  solitary  book  ;  I  have, 
however,  searched  the  registers  of  that  parish 
in  vain  for  any  record  of  the  fact.  Francis 
Coventry  had  gifts  of  wit  and  picturesqueness 
which  deserved  a  better  fate  than  to  amuse  a 
few  dissipated  women  over  their  citron-waters, 
and  then  to  be  forgotten. 


THE    LIFE    OF    JOHN    BUNGLE 


The  Life  of  John  Buncle 

The  Life  of  John  Buncle,  Esq_.,  containing  various  obsefvations  and 
reflections  made  in  several  parts  of  the  nvorld ;  and  many  extraordi- 
nary relations.  London  :  Printed  for  y.  CS(oon,  at  the  White  Hart  in 
Cheapside,  near  the  Poultry,  zMDCCLVI. 

[f^ol.  II.      London  :  Printed  for  J.  Johnson  and  B.  Da"Jenport, 
at  the  Globe,  in  Pater- Noster  ^ow,  MDCCLXVL] 

In  the  year  1756,  there  resided  in  the  Barbican, 
where  the  great  John  Milton  had  hved  before 
him,  a  funny  elderly  personage  called  Mr. 
Thomas  Amory,  of  whom  not  nearly  so  much 
is  recorded  as  the  lovers  of  literary  anecdote 
would  like  to  possess.  He  was  sixty-five  years 
of  age  ;  he  was  an  Irish  gentleman  of  means, 
and  he  was  an  ardent  Unitarian.  Some  un- 
kind people  have  suggested  that  he  was  out  of 
his  mind,  and  he  had,  it  is  certain,  many 
peculiarities.  One  was,  that  he  never  left  his 
house,  or  ventured  into  the  streets,  save  "  like 


2i6  Gossip  in  a  Library 

a  bat,  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening."  He  was, 
in  short,  what  is  called  a  "  crank,"  and  he 
gloried  in  his  eccentricity.  He  desired  that  it 
might  be  written  on  his  tombstone,  "  Here  lies 
an  Odd  Man."  For  sixty  years  he  had  made 
no  effort  to  attract  popular  attention,  but  in 
1755  he  had  published  a  sort  of  romance, 
called  Memoirs  of  Several  Ladies  of  Great  Britain, 
and  now  he  succeeded  it  by  the  truly  extra- 
ordinary work,  the  name  of  which  stands  at  the 
head  of  this  article.  Ten  years  later  there 
would  appear  another  volume  oi  John  Buncle,  and 
then  Amory  disappeared  again.  All  we  know 
is,  that  he  died  in  1788,  at  the  very  respectable 
age  of  ninety-seven.  So  little  is  known  about 
him,  so  successfully  did  he  hide  "  like  a  bat " 
through  the  dusk  of  nearly  a  century,  that  we 
may  be  glad  to  eke  out  the  scanty  information 
given  above  by  a  passage  of  autobiography  from 
the  preface  of  the  book  before  us  : — 

"  I  v/as  born  in  London,  and  carried  an 
infant  to  Ireland,  where  I  learned  the  Irish 
language,  and  became  intimately  acquainted  with 
its  original  inhabitants.      I  was  not  only  a  lover 


The  Life  of  John  Buncle       217 


of  books  from  the  time  I  could  spell  them  to 
this  hour,  but  read  with  an  extraordinary  plea- 
sure, before  I  was  twenty,  the  works  of  several 
of  the  Fathers,  and  all  the  old  romances  ;  which 
tinged  my  ideas  with  a  certain  piety  and  extra- 
vagance that  rendered   my  virtues  as  well  as  my 

imperfections  particularly  mine The  dull, 

the  formal,  and  the  visionary,  the  hard-honest 
man,  and  the  pocr-liver,  are  a  people  I  have  had 
no  connection  with  ;  but  have  always  kept  com- 
pany with  the  polite,  the  generous,  the  lively, 
the  rational,  and  the  brightest  freethinkers  of 
this  age.  Besides  all  this,  I  was  in  the  days 
of  my  youth,  one  of  the  most  active  men  in 
the  world  at  every  exercise  ;  an3  to  a  degree  of 
rashness,  often  venturesome,  when  there  was  no 
necessity  for  running  any  hazards  ;  in  diebus  tilts, 
I  have  descended  head-foremost,  from  a  high 
cliff  into  the  ocean,  to  swim,  when  I  could,  and 
ought,  to  have  gone  off  a  rock  not  a  yard  from 
the  surface  of  the  deep.  I  have  swam  near  a 
mile  and  a  half  out  in  the  sea  to  a  ship  that 
lay  off,  gone  on  board,  got  clothes  from  the 
mate    of  the   vessel,    and    proceeded    with    them 


2i8  Gossip  in  a  Library 

to  the  next  port ;  while  my  companion  I  left 
on  the  beach  concluded  me  drowned,  and  related 
my  sad  fate  in  the  town.  I  have  taken  a  cool 
thrust  over  a  bottle,  without  the  least  animosity 
on  either  side,  but  both  of  us  depending  on  our 
skill  in  the.  small  swc-rd  for  preservation  from 
mischief.  Such  things  as  these  I  now  call 
wrong.'*' 

If  this  is  not  a  person  of  whom  we  would 
like  to  know  more,  I  know  not  what  the  romance 
of  biography  is.  Thomas  Amory's  life  must 
have  been  a  streak  of  crimson  on  the  grey 
surface  of  the  eighteenth  century.  It  is  really 
a  misfortune  that  the  red  is  almost  all  washed 
off. 

No  odder  book  than  John  Buncle  was  pub- 
lished in  England  throughout  the  long  life  of 
Amory.  Romances  there  were,  like  Gulliver's 
Travels  and  Peter  Wilkins,  in  which  the  in- 
cidents were  much  more  incredible,  but  there 
was  no  supposition  that  these  would  be  treated 
as  real  history.  The  curious  feature  of  John 
Buncle  is  that  the  story  is  told  with  the  strictest 
attention  to  realism  and  detail,  and  yet  is  em- 


The  Life  of  John  Buncle       219 

broidered  all  over  with  the  impossible.  There 
can  be  no  doubt  that  Amory,  who  belonged 
to  an  older  school,  was  affected  by  the  form 
of  the  new  novels  which  were  the  fashion  in 
1756.  He  wished  to  be  as  particular  as  Mr. 
Richardson,  as  manly  as  Captain  Fielding,  as 
breezy  and  vigorous  as  Dr.  Smollett,  the  three 
new  writers  who  were  all  the  talk  of  the  town. 
But  there  was  a  twist  in  his  brain  which  made 
his  pictures  of  real  life  appear  like  scenes 
looked  at  through  flawed  glass. 

The  memoirs  of  John  Buncle  take  the  form  of 
an  autobiography,  and  there  has  been  much 
discussion  as  to  how  much  is,  and  how  much 
is  not,  the  personal  history  of  Amory.  I  confess 
I  cannot  see  why  we  should  not  suppose  all  of 
it  to  be  invented,  although  it  certainly  is  odd  to 
relate  anecdotes  and  impressions  of  Dr.  Swift, 
a  propos  of  nothing  at  all,  unless  they  formed 
part  of  the  author's  experience.  For  one  thing, 
the  hero  is  represented  as  being  born  about 
thirteen  years  later  than  Amory  was — if,  inaeed, 
we  possess  the  true  date  of  our  worthy's  birth. 
Buncle  goes  to  college  and  becomes  an  earnest 


220  Gossip  in  a  Library 


Unitarian.      The    incidents    of    his    life    are   all 
intellectual,  until  one  "glorious  first  of  August," 
when  he  sallies   forth  from   college  with   his  gun 
and  dog,  and  after  four  hours'  walk  discovers  that 
he    has  lost   his   way.      He   is   in   the    midst   of 
splendid   mountain   scenery — which   leads    us   to 
wonder    at    which    English    University    he    was 
studying — and   descends  through  woody  ravines 
and  cliffs  that  overhang  torrents,  till  he  suddenly 
comes    in   sight   of  a   "little   harmonic  building 
that   had   every   charm   and   proportion   architec- 
ture could   give  it."      Finding  one  of  the  garden 
doors  open,  and  being  very  hungry,  the  adven- 
turous Buncle  strolls  in,  and  finds  himself  in  "  a 
grotto  or  shell-house,   in  which  a  politeness  of 
fancy   had    produced    and    blended    the    greatest 
beauties  of  nature  and   decoration."      (There  are 
more  grottos  in  the  pages   of  Amory  than   exist 
in  the  whole  of  the  British  Islands.)     This  shell- 
house  opened  into  a  Hbrary,  and  in  the  library 
a    beauteous    object    was    sitting    and    reading. 
She  was  studying  a  Hebrew   Bible,  and   making 
philological  notes  on  a  small  desk.      She  raised 
her  eyes  and  approached  the  stranger,  "  to  know 


The  Life  of  John  Buncle       221 

who  I  wanted  "  (for  Buncle's  style,  though  pic- 
turesque, is  not  always  grammatically  irreproach- 
able). 

Before  he  could  answer,  a  venerable  gentleman 
was  at  his  side,  to  whom  the  young  sportsman 
confessed  that  he  was  dying  of  hunger  and  had 
lost  his  way,  Mr.  Noel,  a  patriarchal  widower 
of  vast  wealth,  was  inhabiting  this  mansion  in 
the  sole  company  of  his  only  daughter,  the  lovely 
being  just  referred  to.  Mr.  Buncle  was  imme- 
diately "  stiffened  by  enchantment  "  at  the  beauty 
of  Miss  Harriot  Noel,  and  could  not  be  induced 
to  leave  when  he  had  eaten  his  breakfast.  This 
difficulty  was  removed  by  the  old  gentleman 
asking  him  to  stay  to  dinner,  until  the  time  of 
which  meal  Miss  Noel  should  entertain  him. 
At  about  10  A.M.  Mr.  Buncle  offers  his  hand  to 
the  astonished  Miss  Noel,  who,  with  great  pro- 
priety, bids  him  recollect  that  he  is  an  entire 
stranger  to  her.  They  then  have  a  long  con- 
versation about  the  Chaldeans,  and  the  "  pri- 
maevity "  of  the  Hebrew  language,  and  the 
extraordinary  longevity  of  the  Antediluvians  ; 
at  the  close  of  which  (cuxa    11. 15   a.m.)   Buncle 


222  Gossip  in  a  Library 

proposes  again.  "  You  force  me  to  smile  (the 
illustrious  Miss  Noel  replied),  and  oblige  me 
to  call  you  an  odd  compound  of  a  man,"  and 
to  distract  his  thoughts,  she  takes  him  round 
her  famous  grotto.  The  conversation,  all  re- 
peated at  length,  turns  on  conchology  and  on 
the  philosophy  of  Epictetus  until  it  is  time  for 
dinner,  when  Mr.  Noel  and  young  Buncle  drink 
a  bottle  of  old  Alicant,  and  discuss  the  gallery  of 
Verres  and  the  poetry  of  Catullus.  Left  alone  at 
last,  Buncle  still  does  not  go  away,  but  at  5  p.m. 
proposes  for  the  third  time,  "  over  a  pot  of  tea." 
Miss  Noel  says  that  the  conversation  will  have 
to  take  some  other  turn,  or  she  must  leave  the 
room.  They  therefore  immediately  "  consider 
the  miracle  at  Babel,"  and  the  argument  of 
Hutchinson  on  the  Hebrew  word  Shcphah,  until, 
while  Miss  Noel  is  in  the  very  act  of  explaining 
that  "  the  Aramitish  was  the  customary  language 
of  the  line  of  Shem,"  young  Buncle  {circa  7.30) 
"  could  not  help  snatching  this  beauty  to  my 
arms,  and  without  thinking  what  I  did,  im- 
pressed on  her  balmy  mouth  half  a  dozen  kias£;5. 
This    was   wrong,    and    gave    offence,"  but   then 


The  Life  of  John  Buncle       223 


papa  returning,  the  trio  sat  down  peacefully  to 
cribbage  and  a  little  music.  Of  course  Miss 
Noel  is  ultimately  won,  and  this  is  a  very  fair 
specimen  of  the  conduct  of  the  book. 

A  fortnight  before  the  marriage,  however, 
"the  small-pox  steps  in,  and  in  seven  days'  time 
reduced  the  finest  human  frame  in  the  universe 
to  the  most  hideous  and  offensive  block,"  and 
Miss  Harriot  Noel  dies.  If  this  dismal  occur- 
rence is  rather  abruptly  introduced,  it  is  because 
Buncle  has  to  be  betrothed,  in  succession,  to  six 
other  lively  and  dehcious  young  females,  all  of 
them  beautiful,  all  of  them  learned,  and  all  of 
them  earnestly  convinced  Unitarians.  If  they 
did  not  rapidly  die  off,  how  could  they  be  seven  ? 
Buncle  mourns  the  decease  of  each,  and  then 
hastily  forms  an  equally  violent  attachment  to 
another.  It  must  be  admitted  that  he  is  a 
sad  wife-waster.  Azora  is  one  of  the  most 
delightful  of  these  deciduous  loves.  She  "  had 
an  amazing  collection  of  the  most  rational 
philosophical  ideas,  and  she  delivered  them  in 
the  most  pleasing  dress."  She  resided  in  a 
grotto  within  a  romantic  dale   in   Yorkshire,  in 


224  Gossip  in  a  Library 

a  "  little  female  republic  "  of  one  hundred  souls, 
all  of  them  "straight,  clean,  handsome  girls." 
In  this  glen  there  is  only  one  man,  and  he  a 
fossil.  Miss  Melmoth,  who  would  discuss  the 
paulo-post  futurum  of  a  Greek  verb  with  the 
utmost  careand  politeness,  and  had  studied  "  the 
Minerva  of  Sanctius  and  Hickes'  Northern  The- 
saurus," was  another  nice  young  lady,  though 
rather  free  in  her  manner  with  gentlemen.  But 
they  all  die,  sacrificed  to  the  insatiable  fate  of 
Buncle. 

Here  the  reader  may  like  to  enjoy  a  sample  of 
Buncle  as  a  philosopher.  It  is  a  characteristic 
passage  : — 

"  Such  was  the  soliloquy  I  spoke,  as  I  gazed 
on  the  skeleton  of  John  Orton;  and  just  as  I  had 
ended,  the  boys  brought  in  the  wild  turkey,  which 
they  had  very  ingeniously  roasted,  and  with  some 
of  Mrs.  Burcot's  fine  ale  and  bread,  I  had  an  ex- 
cellent supper.  The  bones  of  the  penitent  Orton 
I  removed  to  a  hole  I  had  ordered  my  lad  to  dig 
for  them  ;  the  skull  excepted,  which  I  kept,  and 
still  keep  on  my  table  for  a  memento  mori ;  and 
that  I   may  never  forget  the  good  lesson  which 


The  Life  of  John  B uncle       225 

the  percipient  who  once  resided  in  it  had  given. 
It  is  often  the  subject  of  my  meditation.  When 
I  am  alone  of  an  evening,  in  my  closet,  which  is 
often  my  case,  I  have  the  scull  of  John  Orton 
before  me,  and  as  I  smoke  a  philosophic  pipe, 
with  my  eyes  fastened  on  it,  I  learn  more  from 
the  solemn  object  than  I  could  from  the  most 
philosophical  and  laboured  speculations.  What 
a  wild  and  hot  head  once — how  cold  and  still 
now ;  poor  scull,  I  say  :  and  what  was  the  end 
of  all  thy  daring,  frolics  and  gambols — thy  licen- 
tiousness and  impiety — a  severe  and  bitter  repent- 
ance. In  piety  and  goodness  John  Orton  found 
at  last  that  happiness  the  world  could  not  give 
him." 

Hazlitt  has  said  that  "  the  soul  of  Rabelais 
passed  into  John  Amory."  His  name  was 
Thomas,  not  John,  and  there  is  very  little  that 
is  Rabelaisian  in  his  spirit.  One  sees  what 
Hazlitt  meant — the  voluble  and  diffuse  learning, 
the  desultory  thread  of  narration,  the  mixture 
of  religion  and  animalism.  But  the  resemblance 
is  very  superficial,  and  the  parallel  too  compli- 
mentary to  Amory.     It  is  difficult  to  think  of  the 

p 


2  26  Gossip  in  a  Library 

soul  of  Rabelais  in  connection  with  a  pedantic 
and  uxorious  Unitarian.  To  lovers  of  odd  books, 
John  Bunch  will  always  have  a  genuine  attrac- 
tion. Its  learning  would  have  dazzled  Dr. 
Primrose,  and  is  put  on  in  glittering  spars  and 
shells,  like  the  ornaments  of  the  many  grottoes 
that  it  describes.  It  is  diversified  by  descrip- 
tions of  natural  scenery,  which  are  often  exceed- 
ingly felicitous  and  original,  and  it  is  quickened 
by  the  human  warmth  and  flush  of  the  love 
passages,  which,  with  all  their  quaintness,  are 
extremely  human.  It  is  essentially  a  "  healthy  " 
book,  as  Charles  Lamb,  with  such  a  startling 
result,  assured  the  Scotchman.  Amory  was  a 
fervid  admirer  of  womankind,  and  he  favoured  a 
rare  type,  the  learned  lady  who  bears  her  learning 
lightly  and  can  discuss  "  the  quadrations  of  curvi- 
linear spaces  "  without  ceasing  to  be  "  a  bouncing, 
dear,  delightful  girl,"  and  adroit  in  the  prepara- 
tion of  toasts  and  chocolate.  The  style  of  the 
book  is  very  careless  and  irregular,  but  rises  in 
its  best  pages  to  an  admirable  picturesqueness. 


BEAU    NASH 


Beau  Nash 

The  LfFE  of  Richard  Nash,  Esq.;  late  (^M^aster  of  the  Ceremonies  at 
'Bath.  Extracted  principally  from  his  Original  Tapers,  The  Second 
Edition,     London  :  y.  Ncivhery.      1762. 

There  are  cases,  not  known  to  every  col- 
lector of  books,  where  it  is  not  the  first  which  is 
the  really  desirable  edition  of  a  work,  but  the 
second.  One  of  these  rare  examples  of  the 
exception  which  proves  the  rule  is  the  second 
edition  of  Goldsmith's  Life  of  Bean  Nash.  Dis- 
appointment awaits  him  who  possesses  only  the 
first ;  it  is  in  the  second  that  the  best  things 
originally  appeared.  The  story  is  rather  to  be 
divined  than  told  as  history,  but  we  can  see 
pretty  plainly  how  the  fines  of  it  must  have  run. 
In  the  early  part  of  1762,  Oliver  Goldsmith, 
at  that  time  still  undistinguished,  but  in  the 
very   act   of  blossoming   into   fame,   received    a 


230  Gossip  in  a  Library 

commission  of  fourteen  guineas  to  write  for 
Newbery  a  life  of  the  strange  old  beau,  Mr.  Nash, 
who  had  died  in  1761.  On  the  same  day, 
which  was  March  5th,  he  gave  a  receipt  to  the 
pubhsher  for  three  other  publications,  written 
or  to  be  written,  so  that  very  probably  it  was 
not  expected  that  he  should  immediately  supply 
all  the  matter  sold.  In  the  summer  he  seems 
to  have  gone  down  to  Bath  on  a  short  visit, 
and  to  have  made  friends  with  the  Beau's 
executor,  Mr.  George  Scott.  It  has  even 
been  said  that  he  cultivated  the  Mayor  and 
Aldermen  of  Bath  with  such  success  that  they 
presented  him  with  yet  another  fifteen  guineas. 
But  of  this,  in  itself  highly  improbable  in- 
stance of  municipal  benefaction,  the  archives  of 
the  city  yield  no  proof.  At  least  Mr.  Scott  gave 
him  access  to  Nash's  papers,  and  wnth  these  he 
seems  to  have  betaken  himself  back  to  London. 

It  is  a  heart-rending  delusion  and  a  cruel 
snare  to  be  paid  for  your  work  before  you 
accomplish  it.  As  soon  as  once  your  work  is 
finished  you  ought  to  be  promptly  paid  ;  but  to 
receive  your  lucre  one  minute  before  it  is  due,  is 


Beau  Nash  231 


to  tempt  Providence  to  make  a  Micawber  of  you. 
Goldsmith,  of  course,  without  any  temptation 
being  needed,  was  the  very  ideal  Micawber  of 
letters,  and  the  result  of  paying  him  before- 
hand was  that  he  had,  simply,  to  be  popped 
into  the  mill  by  force,  and  the  copy  ground 
out  of  him.  It  is  evident  that  in  the  case  of 
the  first  edition  of  the  Life  of  Bean  NasJi,  the 
grinding  process  was  too  mercifully  applied, 
and  the  book  when  it  appeared  was  short 
measure.  It  has  no  dedication,  no  "advertise- 
ment," and  very  few  notes,  while  it  actually 
omits  many  of  the  best  stories.  The  wise 
bibliophile,  therefore,  will  eschew  it,  and  will 
try  to  get  the  second  edition  issued  a  few 
weeks  later  in  the  same  year,  which  Newbery 
evidently  insisted  that  Goldsmith  should  send 
out  to  the  public  in  proper  order. 

Goldsmith  treats  Nash  with  very  much  the 
same  sort  of  indulgent  and  apologetic  sympathy 
with  which  M.  Barbey  d'Aurevilly  treats  Brum- 
mell.  He  does  not  affect  to  think  that  the  world 
calls  for  a  full-length  statue  of  such  a  fantastic 
hero ;   but  he  seems  to  claim  leave  to  execute  a 


2^2  Gossip  in  a  Library 

statuette  in  terra-cotta  for  a  cabinet  of  curio- 
sities. From  that  point  of  view,  as  a  queer 
object  of  verltt,  as  a  specimen  of  the  bric-a-brac 
of  manners,  both  the  one  and  the  other,  the 
King  of  Beaux  and  the  Emperor  of  Dandies,  are 
welcome  to  amateurs  of  the  odd  and  the  enter- 
taining. At  the  head  of  Goldsmith's  book  stands 
a  fine  portrait  of  Nash,  engraved  by  Anthony 
Walker,  one  of  the  best  and  rarest  of  early 
English  line-engravers,  after  an  oil-picture  by 
William  Hoare,  presently  to  be  one  of  the  foun- 
dation-members of  the  Royal  Academy,  and  now 
and  throughout  his  long  life  the  principal  repre- 
sentative of  the  fine  arts  at  Bath.  Nash  is  here 
represented  in  his  famous  white  hat — galcro  albo, 
as  his  epitaph  has  it;  the  ensign  of  his  rule  at 
Bath,  the  more  than  coronet  of  his  social  sway. 

The  breast  of  his  handsome  coat  is  copiously 
trimmed  with  rich  lace,  and  his  old,  old  eyes, 
with  their  wrinkles  and  their  crow's  feet,  look 
demurely  out  from  under  an  incredible  wig,  an 
umbrageous,  deep-coloured  ramilie  of  early 
youth.  It  is  a  wonderfully  hard-featured, 
serious,  fatuous  face,  and  it  lives  for  us  under 


Beau  Nash  233 


the  delicate  strokes  of  Anthony  Walker's  graver. 
The  great  Beau  looks  as  he  must  have  looked  when 
the  Duchess  of  Queensbury  dared  to  appear  at  the 
Assembly  House  on  a  ball  night  with  a  white 
apron  on.  It  is  a  pleasant  story,  and  only  told 
properly  in  our  second  edition.  King  Nash  had 
issued  an  edict  forbidding  the  wearing  of  aprons. 
The  Duchess  dared  to  disobey.  Nash  walked 
up  to  her  and  deftly  snatched  her  apron  from 
her,  throwing  it  on  to  the  back  benches  where  the 
ladies'  women  sat.  What  a  splendid  moment ! 
Imagine  the  excitement  of  all  that  fashion- 
able company — the  drawn  battle  between  the 
Majesty  of  Etiquette  and  the  Majesty  of  Beauty  ! 
The  Beau  remarked,  with  sublime  calm,  that 
"  none  but  Abigails  appeared  in  white  aprons." 
The  Duchess  hesitated,  felt  that  her  ground  had 
slipped  from  under  her,  gave  way  with  the  most 
admirable  tact,  and  "  with  great  good  sense  and 
humour,  begged  his  Majesty's  pardon." 

Aprons  were  not  the  only  red  rags  to  the  bull 
of  ceremony.  He  was  quite  as  unflinching  an 
enemy  to  top-boots.  He  had  already  banished 
swords  from  the  assembly-room,  because   their 


2  34  Gossip  in  a  Library 

clash  frightened  the  ladies,  and  their  scabbards 
tore  people's  dresses.  But  boots  were  not  so 
easily  banished.  The  county  squires  liked  to 
ride  into  the  city,  and,  leaving  their  horses  at  a 
stable,  walk  straight  into  the  dignity  of  the 
minuet.  Nash,  who  had  a  genius  for  propriety, 
saw  how  hateful  this  was,  and  determined  to  put 
a  stop  to  it.  He  slew  top-boots  and  aprons  at 
the  same  time,  and  with  the  shaft  of  Apollo. 
He  indited  a  poem  on  the  occasion,  and  a  very 
good  example  of  satire  by  irony  it  is.  It  is 
short  enough  to  quote  entire  : 

FRONTINELLA'S  INVITATION  TO  THE  ASSEMBLY. 

Come,  one  and  all, 

To  Hoyden  Hall, 
For  there's  tlo  Assembly  to-night. 

CN^one  but  prude  fools 

3\lind  manners  and  rules. 
We  Hoydens  do  decency  slight. 

Come,  Trollops  and  Slatterns^ 

Cocked  hats  and  zvhite  aprons^ 
This  best  our  modesty  suits  ; 

For  why  should  not  we 

In  dress  be  as  free 
t4s  Hogs- Norton  squires  in  boots  ? 


Beau  Nash  235 


Wh}^,  indeed  ?  But  the  Hogs-Norton  squires, 
as  is  their  wont,  were  not  so  easily  pierced 
to  the  heart  as  the  noble  slatterns.  Nash 
turned  Aristophanes,  and  depicted  on  a  little 
stage  a  play  in  which  Mr.  Punch,  under  very 
disgraceful  circumstances,  excused  himself  for 
wearing  boots  by  quoting  the  practice  of  the 
pump-room  beaux.  This  seems  to  have  gone 
to  the  conscience  of  Hogs-Norton  at  last ;  but 
what  reall}^  gave  the  death-blow  to  top-boots, 
as  a  part  of  evening  dress,  was  the  incident 
of  Nash's  going  up  to  a  gentleman,  who  had 
made  his  appearance  in  the  ball-room  in  this 
unpardonable  costume,  and  remarking,  "  bow- 
ing in  an  arch  manner,"  that  he  appeared  to 
have  "  forgotten  his  horse." 

It  had  not  been  without  labour  and  a  long 
struggle  that  Nash  had  risen  to  this  position 
of  unquestioned  authority  at  Bath.  His  majes- 
tic rule  was  the  result  of  more  than  half  a 
century  of  painstaking.  He  had  been  born  far 
back  in  the  seventeenth  century,  so  far  back 
that,  incredible  as  it  sounds,  a  love  adventure 
of  his   early  youth    had   supplied   Vanbrugh,  in 


236  Gossip  in  a  Library 

1695,  with  an  episode  for  his  comedy  of  yEsop. 
But  after  trying  many  forms  of  life,  and  weary 
of  his  own  affluence,  he  came  to  Bath  just  at 
the  moment  when  the  fortunes  of  that  ancient 
centre  of  social  pleasure  were  at  their  lowest 
ebb.  Queen  Anne  had  been  obliged  to  divert 
herself,  in  1703,  with  a  fiddle  and  a  hautboy, 
and  with  country  dances  on  the  bowling-green. 
The  lodgings  were  dingy  and  expensive,  the 
pump-house  had  no  director,  the  nobility  had 
haughtily  withdrawn  from  such  vulgar  enter- 
tainments as  the  city  now  alone  afforded.  The 
famous  and  choleric  physician.  Dr.  Radcliffe,  in 
revenge  for  some  slight  he  had  endured,  had 
threatened  to  "throw  a  toad  into  King  Bla- 
dud's  Well,"  by  writing  a  pamphlet  against  the 
medicinal  efficacy  of  the  Avaters. 

The  moment  was  critical ;  the  greatness  of  Bath, 
which  had  been  slowly  declining  since  the  days  of 
Elizabeth,  was  threatened  with  extinction  when 
Nash  came  to  it,  wealthy,  idle,  patient,  with  a 
genius  for  organisation,  and  in  half  a  century  he 
made  it  what  he  left  it  when  he  died  in  his  eighty- 
ninth  year,  the   most  elegant   and   attractive  of 


Beau  Nash  237 


the  smaller  social  resorts  of  Europe.  Such  a 
man,  let  us  be  certain,  was  not  wholly  ridi- 
culous. There  must  have  been  something  more 
in  him  than  in  a  mere  idol  of  the  dandies, 
like  Brummell,  or  a  mere  irresistible  buck  and 
lady-killer,  like  Lauzun.  In  these  latter  men 
the  force  is  wholly  destructive  ;  they  are  ani- 
mated by  a  feline  vanity,  a  tiger-spirit  of  egotism. 
Against  the  story  of  Nash  and  the  Duchess  of 
Queensbury,  so  wholesome  and  humane,  we  put 
that  frightful  anecdote  that  Saint-Simon  tells  of 
Lauzun's  getting  the  hand  of  another  duchess 
under  his  high  heel,  and  pirouetting  on  it  to 
make  the  heel  dig  deeper  into  the  flesh.  In  all 
the  repertory  of  Nash's  extravagances  there  is 
not  one  story  of  this  kind,  not  one  that  reveals  a 
wicked  force.  He  was  fatuous,  but  beneficent ; 
silly,  but  neither  cruel  nor  corrupt. 

Goldsmith,  in  this  second  edition  at  least,  has 
taken  more  pains  with  his  life  of  Nash  than  he 
ever  took  again  in  a  biography.  His  Parnell, 
his  Bolingbroke,  his  Voltaire,  are  not  worthy  of 
his  name  and  fame;  not  all  the  industry  of 
annotators  can  ever  make  them   more  than  they 


238  Gossip  in  a  Library 

were  at  first — pot-boilers,  turned  out  with  no 
care  or  enthusiar=m,  and  unconscientiously  pre- 
pared. But  this  subtle  figure  of  a  Master  of 
Ceremonial  ;  this  queer  old  presentment  of  a 
pump-room  king,  crowned  with  a  white  hat, 
waiting  all  day  long  in  his  best  at  the  bow- 
window  of  the  Smyrna  Coffee-House  to  get  a 
bow  from  that  other,  and  alas !  better  accre- 
dited royalty,  the  Prince  of  Wales  ;  this  picture, 
of  an  old  beau,  with  his  toy-shop  of  gold 
snuff-boxes,  his  agate-rings,  his  senseless 
obelisk,  his  rattle  of  faded  jokes  and  blunted 
stories — all  this  had  something  very  attractive 
to  Goldsmith  both  in  its  humour  and  its  pathos  ; 
and  he  has  left  us,  in  his  Life  of  Nashy  a 
study  which  is  far  too  little  known,  but  which 
deserves  to  rank  among  the  best-read  produc- 
tions of  that  infinitely  sympathetic  pen,  which 
has  bequeathed  to  posterity  Mr.  Tibbs  and  Moses 
Primrose  and  Torw/  Lumpkin. 


THE    DIARY    OF    A    LOVER    OF 
LITERATURE 


The  Diary  of  a  Lover  of 
Literature 

Extracts  from  the  Diary  of  a  Lover  of  Literature.  Ipiwkh: 
Printed  and  sold  by  John  'J(aiv  ;  sold  also  by  Longman,  Hurst,  %eis, 
and  Ormt,  Paternoster  '^tv,  London.      1810. 

IT   may   be   that,  save  by  a   few  elderly  people 

and  certain  lovers  of  old  Gentleman's  Magazines, 
the  broad  anonymous  quarto  known  as  The  Diary 
of  a  Lover  of  Literature  is  no  longer  much  ad- 
mired or  even  recollected.  But  it  deserves  to 
be  recalled  to  memory,  if  only  in  that  it  was,  in 
some  respects,  the  first,  and  in  ethers,  the  last 
of  a  long  series  of  publications.  It  was  the 
first  of  those  diaries  of  personal  record  of  the 
intellectual  life,  which  have  become  more  and 
more  the  fashion  and  have  culminated  at  length 
in  the  ultra-refinement  of  Amiel  and  the  con- 
scious  self-analysis    of    Marie    Bashkirtscff.      It 

Q 


242  Gossip  in  a  Library 

was  less  definitely,  perhaps,  the  last,  or  one  of 
the  last,  expressions  of  the  eighteenth  century 
sentiment,  undiluted  by  any  tincture  of  romance, 
any  suspicion  that  fine  literature  existed  before 
Dryden,  or  could  take  any  form  unknown  to 
Burke. 

It  was  under  a  strict  incognito  that  The  Diary 
of  a  Lover  of  Literature  appeared,  and  it  was 
attributed  by  conjecture  to  various  famous  people. 
The  real  author,  however,  was  not  a  celebrated 
man.  His  name  was  Thomas  Green,  and  he 
was  the  grandson  of  a  wealthy  Suffolk  soap- 
boiler, who  had  made  a  fortune  during  the  reign 
of  Queen  Anne.  The  Diarist's  father  had  been 
an  agreeable  amateur  in  letters,  a  pamphleteer, 
and  a  champion  of  the  Church  of  England  against 
Dissent.  Thomas  Green,  who  was  born  in  1769, 
found  himself  at  twenty-five  in  possession  of  the 
ample  family  estates,  a  library  of  good  books,  a 
vast  amount  of  leisure,  and  a  hereditary  faculty 
for  reading.  His  health  was  not  very  solid,  and 
he  was  debarred  by  it  from  sharing  the  pleasures 
o  his  neighbour  squires.  He  determined  to  make 
books  and, music  the  occupation  of  his  life,  and 


Diary  of  a  Lover  of  Literature     243 

in  1796,  on  his  twenty-seventh  birthday,  he  began 
to  record  in  a  diary  his  impressions  of  what  he  read. 
He  went  on  very  quietly  and  luxuriantly,  living 
among  his  books  in  his  house  at  Ipswich,  and 
occasionally  rolling  in  his  post-chaise  to  vale- 
tudinarian baths  and  "  Spaws." 

When  he  had  kept  his  diary  for  fourteen 
years,  it  seemed  to  a  pardonable  vanity  so 
amusing,  that  he  persuaded  himself  to  give  part 
of  it  to  the  world.  The  experiment,  no  doubt, 
was  a  very  dubious  one.  After  much  hesitation, 
and  in  an  evil  hour,  perhaps,  he  wrote  :  "  I  am 
induced  to  submit  to  the  indulgence  of  the  public 
the  idlest  work,  probably,  that  ever  was  com- 
posed ;  but,  I  could  wish  to  hope,  not  absolutely 
the  most  unentertaining  or  unprofitable."  The 
welcome  his  volume  received  must  speedily  have 
reassured  him,  but  he  had  pledged  himself  to 
print  no  more,  and  he  kept  his  promise,  though 
he  went  on  writing  his  Diary  until  he  died  in 
1825.  His  MSS.  passed  into  the  hand  of  John 
Mitford,  who  amused  the  readers  of  The  Gentle- 
man's Magazine  with  fragments  of  them  for 
several  years.      Green  has  had  many  admirers 


244  Gossip  in  a  Library 

in  the  past,  amongst  whom  Edward  FitzGerald 
was  not  the  least  distinguished.  But  he  was 
always  something  of  a  local  worthy,  author  of 
one  anonymous  book,  and  of  late  he  has  been  little 
mentioned  outside  the  confines  of  Suffolk. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  find  an  example  more 
striking  than  the  Diary  of  a  Lover  of  Literature 
of  exclusive  absorption  in  the  world  of  books. 
It  opens  in  a  gloomy  year  for  British  politics, 
but  there  is  found  no  allusion  to  current  events. 
There  is  a  victory  off  Cape  St.  Vincent  in 
February  1797,  but  Green  is  attacking  Bentley's 
annotations  on  Horace.  Bonaparte  and  his 
army  are  buried  in  the  sands  of  Egypt ;  our 
Diarist  takes  occasion  to  be  buried  in  Shaftes- 
bury's Enquiry  Concerning  Virtue.  Europe  rings 
with  Hohenlinden,  but  the  news  does  not  reach 
Mr.  Thomas  Green,  nor  disturb  him  in  his 
perusal  of  Soame  Jenyns'  View  of  Christianity. 
The  fragment  of  the  Diary  here  preserved  runs 
from  September  1796  to  June  1800.  No  one 
would  guess,  from  any  word  between  cover  and 
cover,   that   these   were    not  halcyon   years,    an 


Diary  of  a  Lover  of  Literature     245 


epoch  of  complete  European  tranquillity.  War 
upon  war  might  walce  the  echoes,  but  the  river 
ran  softly  by  the  Ipswich  garden  of  this  gentle 
enthusiast,  and  not  a  murmur  reached  him 
through   his   hlacs   and   laburnums. 

I  have  said  that  this  book  is  one  of  the  latest 
expressions  of  unadulterated  eighteenth-century 
sentiment.  For  form's  sake,  the  Diarist  men- 
tions now  and  again,  very  superficially,  Shake- 
speare, Bacon,  and  Milton ;  but  in  reality,  the 
garden  of  his  study  is  bounded  b3'  a  thick  hedge 
behind  the  statue  of  Dryden.  The  classics  o£ 
Greece  and  Rome,  and  the  limpid  reasonable 
writers  of  England  from  the  Restoration  down- 
wards, these  are  enough  for  him.  Writing  in 
1800  he  has  no  suspicion  of  a  new  age  prepar- 
ing. We  read  these  stately  pages,  and  we  rub 
our  eyes.  Can  it  be  that  when  all  this  was 
written,  Wordsworth  and  Coleridge  had  issued 
Lyrical  Ballads,  and  Keats  himself  was  in  the 
world?  Almost  the  only  touch  which  shows 
consciousness  of  a  suspicion  that  romantic  litera- 
ture existed,  is  a  reference  to  the  rival  transla- 


246  Gossip  in  a  Library 

tions  of  Burger's  Lcnore  in  1797.  Sir  Walter 
Scott,  as  we  know,  was  one  of  the  anonymous 
translators  ;  it  was,  however,  in  all  probability 
not  his,  but  Taylor's,  that  Green  mentions  with 
special  approbation. 

In  one  hundred  years  a  mighty  change  has 
come  over  the  tastes  and  fashions  of  literary  life. 
When  The  Diary  of  a  Lover  of  Literature  was 
written,  Dr.  Hurd,  the  pompous  and  offensive 
Bishop  of  Worcester,  was  a  dreaded  martinet  of 
letters,  carrying  on  the  tradition  of  his  yet  more 
formidable  master  Warburton.  As  people  now- 
adays discuss  Verlaine  and  Ibsen,  so  they  argued 
in  those  days  about  Godv/in  and  Home  Tooke, 
and  shuddered  over  each  fresh  incarnation  of  Mrs. 
Radcliffe.  Soame  Jenyns  was  dead,  indeed,  in 
the  flesh,  but  his  influence  stalked  at  nights 
under  the  lamps  and  where  disputants  were 
gathered  together  in  country  rectories.  Dr.  Parr 
affected  the  Olympian  nod,  and  crowned  or 
check-mated  reputations.      "A  flattering  message 

from  Dr.  P "  sends  our  Diarist  into  ecstacies 

so  excessive  that  a  reaction  sets  in,  and  the 
*'  predominant  and  final  effect  upon  my  mind  has 


Diary  of  a  Lover  of  Literature     247 

been  depression  rather  than  elevation."  We 
think  of 

The  yarns  Jack  Hall  invented^  and  the  songs  Jem 

Roper  sung, 
And  where  are  now  Jem  Roper  and  Jac\  Hall? 

Who  cares  now  for  Parr's  praise  or  Soame 
Jenyns'  censure  ?  Yet  in  our  Diarist's  pages 
these  take  equal  rank  with  names  that  time  has 
spared,  with  Robertson  and  Gibbon,  Burke  and 
Reynolds. 

Thomas  Green  was  more  ready  for  experiment 
in  art  than  in  Hterature.  He  was  "  particularly 
struck  "  at  the  Royal  Academy  of  1797  with  a 
sea  view  by  a  painter  called  Turner  : — 

"  Fishing  vessels  coming  in  with  a  heavy 
swell  in  apprehension  of  a  tempest,  gathering  in 
the  distance,  and  casting  as  it  advances  a  night 
of  shade,  while  a  parting  glow  is  spread  with  fine 
effect  upon  the  shore ;  the  whole  composition 
bold  in  design  and  masterly  in  execution.  I  am 
entirely  unacquainted  with  the  artist,  but  if  he 
proceeds  as  he  has  begun,  he  cannot  fail  to 
become  the  first  in  his  department." 


248  Gossip  in  a  Library 

A  remarkable  prophecy,  and  one  of  the  earliest 
notices  we  possess  of  the  effect  which  the  youth- 
ful Turner,  then  but  twenty-two  years  of  age, 
made  on  his  contemporaries. 

As  a  rule,  except  when  he  is  travelling,  our 
Diarist  almost  entirely  occupies  himself  with  a 
discussion  of  the  books  he  happens  to  be  reading. 
His  opinions  are  not  always  in  concert  with  the 
current  judgment  of  to-day  ;  he  admires  Warbur- 
ton  much  more  than  we  do,  and  Fielding  much 
less.  But  he  never  fails  to  be  amusing,  because 
so  independent  within  the  restricted  bounds  of 
his  intellectual  domain.  He  is  shut  up  in  his 
eighteenth  century  like  a  prisoner,  but  inside  its 
wall  his  liberty  of  action  is  complete.  Some- 
times his  judgments  are  sensibly  in  advance  of 
his  age.  It  was  the  fashion  in  1798  to  denounce 
the  Letters  of  Lord  Chesterfield  as  frivolous  and 
immoral.  Green  takes  a  wider  view,  and  in  a 
thoughtful  analysis  points  out  their  judicious 
merits  and  their  genuine  parental  assiduity. 
When  Green  can  for  a  moment  lift  his  eyes  from 
his  books,  he  shows  a  sensitive  quality  of  obser- 
vation which  might  have  been  cultivated  to  general 


Diary  of  a  Lover  of  Literature     249 

advantage.  Here  is  a  reflection  which  seems  to 
be  as  novel  as  it  is  happy  : — 

"  Looked  aftervi^ards  into  the  Roman  Cathoh'c 
Chapel  in  Duke  Siie.t.  The  thrilling  tinkle  of 
the  little  bell  at  the  elevation  of  the  Host  is  per- 
haps the  finest  example  that  can  be  given  of  the 
sublime  by  association — nothing  so  poor  and 
trivial  in  itself,  nothing  so  transcendently  awful, 
as  indicating  the  sudden  change  in  the  conse- 
crated Elements,  and  the  instant  presence  of  the 
Redeemer." 

Much  of  the  latter  part  of  the  Diary,  as  we 
hold  it,  is  occupied  with  the  description  of  a  tour 
in  England  and  Wales.  Here  Green  is  lucid, 
graceful  and  refined  :  producing  one  after  another 
little  vignettes  in  prose,  which  remind  us  of  the 
simple  drawings  of  the  water-colour  n:asters  of 
the  age,  of  Girtin  or  Cozens  or  Glover.  The 
volume,  which  opened  with  some  remarks  on  Sir 
William  Temple,  closes  with  a  disquisition  on 
Warton's  criticism  of  the  poets.  The  curtain 
rises  for  three  years  on  a  smooth  stream  of  intel- 
lectual reflection,  unruffled  by  outward  incident, 
and  then  falls  again  before  we  are  weary  of  the 


250  Gossip  in  a  Library 

monotonous  flow  of  undiluted  criticism.  The 
Diary  of  a  Lover  of  Literature  is  at  once  the 
pleasing  record  of  a  cultivated  mind,  and  a  monu- 
ment to  a  species  of  existence  that  is  as  obsolete 
as  nankeen  breeches  or  a  tie-wig. 


Isaac  D'Israeli  said  that  Green  had  humbled 
all  modern  authors  to  the  dust,  and  that  he 
earnestly  wished  for  a  dozen  volumes  of  The 
Diary.  At  Green's  death  material  for  at  least 
so  many  supplements  were  placed  in  the  hands 
of  John  Mitford,  who  did  not  venture  to  produce 
them.  From  January  1834  to  May  1843,  how- 
ever, Mitford  was  incessantly  contributing  to  The 
Gentleman  s  Magazine  unpublished  extracts  from 
this  larger  Diary.  These  have  never  been  col- 
lected, but  my  friend,  Mr.  W.  Aldis  Wright, 
possesses  a  very  interesting  volume,  into  which 
the  whole  mass  of  them  has  been  carefully  and 
consecutively  pasted,  with  copious  illustrative 
matter,  by  the  hand  of  Edward  FitzGerald,  whose 
interest    in    and    curiosity   about   Thomas  Green 


were  unflagg'ng. 


PETER  BELL   AND  HIS   TORMENTORS 


Peter  Bell  and  his  Tormentors 

Peter  Bell  :  sA  Tale  in  ZJeru,  by  WtlUam  JVordsivorth.  London : 
Trinted  by  Strahan  and  Spcttisivoode,  Trinters-Street :  for  Longman, 
Hurst,  "^es,  Oi me  and  '•Broivn,  Taternoster  '^^oiv.      iSlQ- 

None  of  Wordsworth's  productions  are  better 
known  by  name  than  Pckr  Bell,  and  yet  few, 
probably,  are  less  famihar,  even  to  convuiced 
Wordsworthians.  The  poet's  biographers  and 
critics  have  commonly  shirked  the  responsibility 
of  discussing  this  poem,  and  when  the  Primrose 
stanza  has  been  quoted,  and  the  Parlour  stanza 
smiled  at,  there  is  usually  no  more  said  about 
Peter  Bell.  A  puzzling  obscurity  hangs  around 
its  history.  We  have  no  positive  knowledge 
why  its  publication  was  so  long  delayed  ;  nor, 
having  been  delayed,  why  it  was  at  length  de- 
termined upon.  Yet  a  knowledge  of  this  poem  is 
not  merely  an  important,  but,  to  a  thoughtful  critic, 
an   essential    element   in    the    comprehension    of 


254  Gossip  in   a  Library 

Wordsworth's  poetry.  No  one  who  examines 
that  body  of  literature  with  sympathetic  attention 
should  be  content  to  overlook  the  piece  in  which 
Wordsworth's  theories  are  pushed  to  their 
furthest  extremity. 

When  Peter  Bell  was  published  in  April  1819, 
the  author  remarked  that  it  had  "  nearly  survived 
its  minority ;  for  it  saw  the  light  in  the  summer 
of  1798."  It  was  therefore  composed  at  Alfoxden, 
that  plain  stone  house  in  West  Somersetshire, 
which  Dorothy  and  William  Wordsworth  rented 
for  the  sum  of  £2^,  for  one  year,  the  rent  cover- 
ing the  use  of  "  a  large  park,  with  sev-enty  head 
of  deer." 

Thanks  partly  to  its  remoteness  from  a  rail- 
way, and  partly  also  to  the  peculiarities  of  its 
family  history,  Alfoxden  remains  singularly  un- 
altered. The  lover  of  Wordsworth  who  follows 
its  deep  umbrageous  drive  to  the  point  where 
the  house,  the  park  around  it,  and  the  Quan- 
tocks  above  them  suddenly  break  upon  the 
view,  sees  to-day  very  much  what  Wordsworth's 
visitors  saw  when  they  trudged  up  from  Stowey 
to  commune  with  him   in  1797.      The   barrier  of 


Peter  Bell  and  his  Tormentors     255 

ancient   beech-trees   running  up   into   the  moor, 
Kilve  twinkhng  below,  the  stretch   of  fields  and 
woods  descending  northward  to  the  expanse  of 
the  yellow  Severn  Channel,  the  plain  white  fagade 
of  Alfoxden  itself,   with    its   easy  right  of  way 
across  the  fantastic  garden,  the  tumultuous  path- 
way  down  to  the  glen,  the  poet's  favourite  parlour 
at   the  end   of    the   house — all   this   presents  an 
impression   which  is   probably  less   transformed, 
remains   more   absolutely  intact,   than  any  other 
which  can  be  identified  with  the  early  or  even  the 
middlelifeof  the  poet.    That  William  and  Dorothy, 
in   their  poverty,  should  have  rented  so  noble  a 
country  property  seems  at  first  sight  iftexplicable, 
and  the  contrast  between  Alfoxden  and  Coleridge's 
squalid  pot-house   in   Nether  Stowey  can   never 
cease  to  be  astonishing.      But  the  sole  object  of 
the  trustees  in   admitting  Wordsworth  to  Alfox- 
den was,  as  Mrs.  Sandford   has  discovered,  "  to 
keep  the  house  inhabited  during  the  minority  of 
the  owner"  ;  it  was  let  to  the  poet   on   the    14th 
of  July  1797. 

It  was  in  this  delicious  place,  under  the  shadow 
of     "  smooth     Quantock's     airy      ridge,"      that 


256  Gossip  in  a   Library 

Wordsworth's    genius    came    of    age.       It    was 
during     the     twelve    months    spent     here    that 
Wordsworth  lost  the  final  traces  of  the   old    t  a- 
dional  accent  of  poetry.      It  was  here   that   the 
best    of  the   Lyrical  Ballads   were    written,   and 
from  this  house  the   first   volume  of  that   epoch- 
making   collection    was    forwarded    to    the  press. 
Among  the  poems  written  at  Alfoxden  Peter  Bell 
was   prominent,  but   we  hear  little  of  it    except 
from    Hazlitt,    who,    taken    over   to   the  Words- 
worths  by   Coleridge  from    Nether   Stowey,  was 
on  a  first  visit  permitted    to  read    "  the  sybilline 
leaves,"  and  on  a  second   had  the   rare  pleasure 
of  hearing  *Wordsworth  himself  chant  Peter  Bell, 
in  his  "  equable,  sustained,  and  internal "  manner 
of  recitation,    under    the    ash-trees    of  Alfoxden 
Park.      I  do  not  know  whether  it  has  been  noted 
that  the  landscape  of  Peter  Bell,  although  local- 
ised   in    Yorkshire   by    the   banks   of  the   River 
Swale,  is  yet  pure  Somerset   in   character.      The 
poem  was  composed,  without  a  doubt,  as  the  poet 
tramped    the    grassy   heights   of    the    Quantock 
Hills,  or  descended   at  headlong   pace,  mouthing 
and    murmuring    as    he    went,    into   one    sylvan 


Peter  Bell  and  his  Tormentors    257 

combe  after  another.  To  give  it  its  proper  place 
among  the  writings  of  the  school,  we  must  re- 
member that  it  belongs  to  the  same  group  as 
Tintern  Abbey  and  The  Ancient  Mariner. 

Why,  then,  was  it  not  issued  to  the  world 
with  these  ?  Why  was  it  locked  up  in  the  poet's 
desk  for  twenty-one  years,  and  shown  during 
that  time,  as  we  gather  from  its  author's  language 
to  Southey,  to  few,  even  of  his  close  friends  ? 
To  these  questions  we  find  no  reply  vouchsafed, 
but  perhaps  it  is  not  difficult  to  discover  one. 
Every  revolutionist  in  literature  or  art  produces 
some  composition  in  which  he  goes  further  than 
in  any  other  in  his  defiance  of  recognised  rules 
and  conventions.  It  was  Wordsworth's  central 
theory  that  no  subject  can  be  too  simple  and  no 
treatment  too  naked  for  poetic  purposes.  His 
poems  written  at  Alfoxden  are  precisely  those  in 
which  he  is  most  audacious  in  carrying  out  his 
principle,  and  nothing,  even  of  his,  is  quite  so 
simple  or  quite  so  naked  as  Peter  Bell.  Ilazlitt, 
a  very  young  man,  strongly  prejudiced  in  favour 
of  the  new  ideas,  has  given  us  a  notion  of  the 
amazement  with  which  he  listened  to  these  pieces 

R 


258  Gossip  in  a  Library 

of  Wordsworth,  although  he  was  "  not  critically 
nor  sceptically  inclined."  Others,  we  know, 
were  deeply  scandalised.  I  have  little  doubt 
that  Wordsworth  himself  considered  that,  in 
1798,  his  own  admirers  w^ere  scarcely  ripe  for 
the  publ  cation  of  Peter  Bell,  while,  even  so  late 
as  June  181 2,  when  Crabb  Robinson  borrowed 
the  MS.  and  lent  it  to  Charles  Lamb,  the  latter 
"  found  nothing  good  in  it."  Robinson  seems  to 
have  been  the  one  admirer  of  Peter  Bell  at  that 
time,  and  he  was  irritated  at  Lamb's  indifference. 
Yet  his  own  opinion  became  modified  when  the 
poem  was  published,  and  (May  3,  18 19)  he  calls 
it  "this  unfortunate  book."*  In  another  place 
(June  12,  1820)  Crabb  Robinson  says  that  he 
implored  Wordsworth,  before  the  book  was 
printed,  to  omit  "  the  party  in  a  parlour,"  and 
also  the  banging  of  the  ass's  bones,  but,  of 
course,  in  vain. 

In  1 8 19  much  was  changed.      The  poet  was 
now  in  his  fiftieth  year.      The  epoch  of  his  true 


*  The  word  unfoytunate  is  omitted   by  Sadler,  perhaps  in  deference 
to  the  feelings  of  Wordsworth's  descendants. 


Peter  Bell  and  his  Tormentors     259 


productiveness  was  closed  ;   all  his   best  works, 
except    The  Prelude,  were  before  the  public,  and 
although  Wordsworth   was  by  no  means  widely 
or  generally  recognised  yet  as  a  great  poet,  there 
was    a   considerable   audience   ready    to    receive 
with  respect  whatever    so   interesting   a   person 
should   put   forward.      Moreover,  a  new  genera- 
tion  had  come   to    the   front ;    Scott's   series   of 
verse-romances  was  closed  ;   Byron  was  in   mid- 
career  ;   there  were  young  men   of  extraordinary 
and  somewhat  disquieting  talent — Shelley,  Keats, 
and  Leigh    Hunt — all    of  whom  were  supposed 
to  be,  although  characters  of  a  very  reprehensible 
and  even  alarming  class,  yet  distinctly  respectful 
in  their  attitude    towards    Mr.  Wordsworth.      It 
seemed  safe  to  publish  Peter  Bell. 

Accordingly,  the  thin  octavo  described  at  the 
head  of  this  chapter  duly  appeared  in  April  18 19. 
It  w-as  so  tiny  that  it  had  to  be  eked  out  with 
the  Sonnets  written  to  W.  Westall's  Views,  and 
it  was  adorned  by  an  engraving  of  Bromley's, 
after  a  drawing  specially  made  by  Sir  George 
, Beaumont  to  illustrate  the  poem.  A  Ictier  to 
Beaumont,  unfortunately  without  a  date,  in  wLijli 


26o  Gossip  in  a  Library 

this  frontispiece  is  discussed,  seems  to  suggest 
that  the  engraving  was  a  gift  from  the  artist 
to  the  poet ;  Wordsworth,  "  in  sorrow  for  the 
sickly  taste  of  the  public  in  verse,"  opining  that  he 
cannot  afford  the  expense  of  such  a  frontispiece 
as  Sir  George  Beaumont  suggests.  In  accord- 
ance with  these  fears,  no  doubt,  an  edition  of 
only  500  was  published ;  but  it  achieved  a 
success  which  Wordsworth  had  neither  antici- 
pated or  desired.  There  was  a  general  guffaw 
of  laughter,  and  all  the  copies  were  immediately 
sold  ;  within  a  month  a  ribald  public  received 
a  third  edition,  only  to  discover,  with  disappoint- 
ment, that  the  funniest  lines  were  omitted. 

No  one  admired  Peter  Bell.  The  inner  circle 
was  silent.  Barron  Field  wrote  on  the  title-page 
of  his  copy,  which  now  belongs  to  Mr.  J.  Dykes 
Campbell,  "  And  his  carcass  was  cast  in  the 
way,  and  the  Ass  stood  by  it."  Sir  Walter 
Scott  openly  lamented  that  Wordsworth  should 
exhibit  himself  "crawling  on  all  fours,  when 
God  has  given  him  so  noble  a  countenance 
to  lift  to  heaven."  Byron  mocked  aloud,  and, 
worse    than    all,    the    young    men    from   whom 


Peter  Bell  and  his  Tormentors    261 

so  much  had  been  expected,  Ics  jcunes  fe'roces, 
leaped  on  the  poor  uncomplaining  Ass  like 
so  many  hunting-leopards.  The  air  was 
darkened  by  hurtling  parodies,  the  arrangement 
of  which  is  still  a  standing  crux  to  the  biblio- 
graphers. 

It  was  Keats's  friend,  John  Hamilton  Reynolds, 
who  opened  the  attack.  His  parody  {Peter  Bell : 
a  Lyrical  Ballad.  London,  Taylor  and  Hessey, 
1 8 19)  was  posicively  in  the  field  before  the 
orig'nal.  It  was  said,  at  the  time,  that  Words- 
worth, feverishly  awaiting  a  specimen  copy  of 
his  own  Peter  Bell  from  town,  seized  a  packet 
which  the  mail  brought  him,  only  to  find  that 
it  was  the  spurious  poem  which  had  anticipated 
Simon  Pure.  The  Times  pro:;ested  that  the  two 
poems  must  be  from  the  same  pen.  Reynolds  had 
probably  glanced  at  proofs  of  the  genuine  poem  ; 
his  preface  is  a  close  imitation  of  Wordsworth's 
introduction,  and  the  stanzaic  form  in  which  the 
two  pieces  are  written  is  identical.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  main  parody  is  made  up  of  allusions 
to  previous  poems  by  Wordsworth,  and  shows 
no    acquaintance  with   the  story  of  Peter  Bell. 


262  Gossip  in  a   Library 

Reynolds's  whole  pamphlet — preface,  text,  and 
notes — is  excessively  clever,  and  touches  up  the 
bard  at  a  score  of  tender  points.  It  catches  the 
sententious  tone  of  Wordsworth  deliciously,  and 
it  closes  with  this  charming  stanza  : 

He  quits  that  moonlight  yard  of  skulls, 

Jind  still  he  feels  right  glad,  and  smiles 

With  moral  joy  at  that  old  totnb  ; 

Teter's  cheek  recalls  its  bloom, 

tAnd  as  he  creepeth  by  the  tiles, 

He  mutters  ever — "  tV.  W, 

C^ver  more  zuill  trouble  you,  trouble  youP 

Peter  Bell  the  Second,  as  it  is  convenient,  though 
not  strictly  accurate,  to  call  Reynolds's  "ante- 
natal Peter,"  was  more  popular  than  the  original. 
By  May  a  third  edition  had  been  called  for, 
and  this  contained  fresh  stanzas  and  additional 
notes. 

Another  parody,  which  ridiculed  the  affection 
for  donkeys  displayed  both  by  Wordsworth  and 
Coleridge,  w  is  called  The  Dead  Asses  :  A  Lyrical 
Ballad;  and  an  elaborate  production,  the  author 
of  jvhich  I  have  not  been  able  to  discover,  was 
published    later    on    in    the   year,    Benjamin   the 


Peter  Bell  and  his  Tormentors  263 

Waggoner  (Baldwin,  Craddock  and  Joy,  18 19), 
which,  although  the  title  suggests  The  JVaggoner 
of  Wordsworth,  is  entirely  taken  up  with  making 
fun  of  Peter  Bell.  This  parody — and  it  is  cer- 
tainly neitlier  pointless  nor  unskilful — chiefly 
deals  with  the  poet's  fantastic  prologue.  Then, 
no  less  a  person  than  Shelley,  writing  to  Leigh 
Hunt  from  Florence  in  November  of  the  same 
year,  enclosed  a  Peter  Bell  the  Third  which  he 
desired  should  be  printed,  yet  so  as  to  completely 
conceal  the  name  of  the  author.  Perhaps  Hunt 
thought  it  indiscreet  to  publish  this  not  very 
amus'ng  skit,  and  it  did  not  see  the  light  till  long 
after  Shelley's  death.  Finally,  as  though  the 
very  spirit  of  parody  danced  in  the  company  of 
this  strange  poem,  Wordsworth  himself  chronicled 
its  ill-fate  in  a  sonnet  imitated  from  Milton's 
defence  of  "  Tetrachordon,"  singing  how,  on  the 
appearance  of  Peter  Bell, 

a  harpy  brood 
On  Bard  and  Hero  c/amourously  fell. 

Of  the  poem  which  enjoyed  so  singular  a  fate, 
Lord    Houghton    has   quietly    remarked    that    it 


264  Gossip  in  a  Library 

could  not  have  been  written  by  a  man  with  a 
strong  sense  of  humour.  This  is  true  of  every 
part  of  it,  of  the  stiff  and  self-sufficient  preface, 
and  of  the  grotesque  prologue,  both  of  which  in 
all  probability  belong  to  18 19,  no  less  than  of 
the  story  itself,  in  its  three  cantos  or  parts, 
which  bear  the  stamp  of  Alfoxden  and  1798. 
The  tale  is  not  less  improbable  than  uninterest- 
ing. In  the  first  part,  a  very  wicked  potter  or 
itinerant  seller  of  pots,  Peter  Bell,  being  lost  in 
the  woodland,  conies  to  the  borders  of  a  river, 
and  thinks  to  steal  an  ass  wl;ich  he  finds  pen- 
sively hanging  its  head  over  the  water  ;  Peter 
Bell  presently  discovers  that  the  dead  body  of 
the  master  of  the  ass  is  floating  in  the  river  just 
below.  (The  poet,  as  he  has  naively  recorded, 
read  this  incident  in  a  newspaper.)  In  the 
second  part  Peter  drags  the  dead  man  to  land, 
and  starts  on  the  ass's  back  to  find  the  survivors. 
In  the  third  part  a  vague  spiritual  chastisement 
falls  on  Peter  Bell  for  his  previous  wickedness. 
Plot  there  is  no  more  than  this,  and  if  proof 
were  wanted  of  the  inherent  innocence  of  Words- 
worth's    mind,    it    is    afforded    by    the     artless 


Peter  Bell  and  his  Tormentors     265 

struggles  which  he  makes  to  paint  a  very  wicked 
man.  Peter  Bell  has  had  twelve  wives,  he  is 
indifferent  to  primroses  upon  a  river's  brim,  and 
be  beats  asses  when  they  refuse  to  stir.  This  is 
really  all  the  evidence  brought  against  one  who 
is  described,  vaguely,  as  combining  all  vices  that 
"  the  cruel  city  breeds." 

That  which  close  students  of  the  genius  of 
Wordsworth  will  alwa3^s  turn  to  seek  in  Peter 
Bell  is  the  sincere  sentiment  of  nature  and  the 
studied  simplicity  of  language  which  inspire  its 
best  stanzas.  The  narrative  is  clumsy  in  the 
extreme,  and  the  attempts  at  wit  and  sarcasm 
ludicrous.  Yet  Peter  Bell  contains  exquisite 
things.  The  Primrose  stanza  is  known  to  every 
one  ;   this  is  not  so  familiar  : — 

The  dragoTi's  wing,  the  f?iagic  ring^ 
I  shall  not  covet  for  my  dower , 
If  I  along  that  lowly  way 
With  sympathetic  heart  may  stray 
<And  with  a  soul  of  power. 

Nor  this,  with   its  characteristic  simf  licity,  its 
descriptive  accent  of  1798  : — 


266  Gossip  in  a  Library 

/  see  n  blooming  Wood-boy  there, 
And,  if  I  had  the  power  to  say 
How  sorrozvful  the  loanderer  is. 
Your  heart  would  be  as  sad  as  his 

Till  you  had  kissed  his  tears  away  f 

Holding  a  hatvthorn  branch  in  hand, 
j^U  bright  with  berries  ripe  and  red ; 
Into  the  cavern^ 5  inouth  he  peeps — 
Thence  bach  into  the  ?noonlight  creeps  ; 
What  seeks  the  boy  ? — the  silent  dead  / 

It  is  when  he  wishes  to  describe  how  Peter  Bell 
became  aware  of  the  dead  body  floating  under 
the  nose  of  the  patient  ass  that  Wordsworth  loses 
himself  in  uncouth  similes.  Peter  thinks  it  is  the 
moon,  then  the  reflection  of  a  cloud,  then  a  gal- 
lows, a  coffin,  a  shroud,  a  stone  idol,  a  ring  of 
fairies,  a  fiend.  Last  of  all  the  poet  makes  the 
Potter,  who  is  gazing  at  the  corpse,  exclaim  : — 

Is  it  a  party  in  a  parlour  ? 

Cramm'd  just  as  they  on  earth  were  crammed — 

Some  sipping  punch,  sofne  sippi?2g  tea, 

'But,  as  you  by  their  faces  see, 

All  silent  and  all  damnd  J 


Peter  Bell  and  his  Tormentors  267 


Sd  deplorable  is  the  waggishness  of  a  person, 
however  gifted,  who  has  no  sense  of  humour ! 
This  simile  was  too  much  for  the  gravity  even  of 
intimate  friends  like  Southey  and  Lamb,  and 
after  the  second  edition  it  disappeared. 


THE    FANCY 


The   Fancy 


The  Fancy  :  cA  Sekct'.oi  from  the  Tutkal  Remains  of  the  late  Peter 
Corcoran,  of  Qrays  Lin,  student  at  law.  Wjh  a  brief  't^'temoir  of 
his  Ife.  London  :  printed  for  Taylor  &  Hcssey,  Fleet  Street. 
1820. 

The  themes  of  the  poets  run  in  a  very  narrow 
channel.  Since  the  old  heroic  times  when  the 
Homers  and  the  Gunnlaugs  sang  of  battle  with 
the  sleet  of  lances  hurtling  around  them,  a  great 
calm  has  settled  down  upon  Parnassus.  Genera- 
tion after  generation  pipes  the  same  tune  of  love 
and  Nature,  of  the  liberal  arts  and  the  illiberal 
philosophies;  the  same  imager}^,  the  same  metres, 
meander  within  the  same  polite  margins  of  con- 
ventional subject.  Ever  and  anon  some  one 
attempts  to  break  out  of  the  groove.  In  the 
eighteenth  century  they  made  a  valiant  effort  to 
sing  of  The  Art  of  Preserving  Health,  and  of  The 


272  Gossip  In  a  Library 

Fleece  and  of  The  Sugar-Cane,  but  the  innovators 
lie  stranded,  like  cumbrous  whales,  on  the  shore 
of  the  ocean  of  Poesy.  Flaubert's  friend,  Louis 
Bouilhet,  made  a  manful  attempt  to  tune  the 
stubborn  lyre  to  music  of  the  birthday  of  the 
world,  to  battles  of  the  ichthyosaurus  and  the 
plesiosaurus,  to  loves  of  the  mammoth  and  the 
mastodon.  But  the  public  would  have  none  of 
it,  though  ensphered  in  faultless  verse,  and  the 
poets  fled  back  to  their  flames  and  darts,  and 
to  the  primrose  at  the  river's  brim.  There  is, 
however,  something  pathetic,  and  something  that 
pleasantly  reminds  us  of  the  elasticity  of  the 
human  intellect  in  these  failures  ;  and  the  book 
before  us  is  an  amusing  example  of  such  eccentric 
efforts  to  enlarge  the  sphere  of  the  poetic 
activity. 

This  little  volume  is  called  The  Fancy,  and 
it  does  not  appear  to  me  certain  that  the 
virtuous  American  conscience  know  what  that 
means.  If  the  young  ladies  from  Wells  or 
Wellesley  inquire  ingenuously,  "  Tell  us  where 
is  Fancy  bred  ? "  we  should  have  to  reply, 
with    a   jingle,    In   the   fists,   not    in  the   head. 


The  Fancy  273 

The  poet    himself,   in   a  fit  of  unusual  candour, 

says  : 

Fancy  s  a  term  for  every  blackguardism, 

though  this  is  much  too  severe.  But  rats,  and  they 
who  catch  them,  badgers,  and  they  who  bait  them, 
cocks,  and  they  who  fight  them,  and,  above  all,  men 
with  fists,  who  professionally  box  with  them,  come 
under  the  category  of  the  Fancy.  This,  then,  is 
the  theme  which  the  poet  before  us,  living  under 
the  genial  sway  of  the  First  Gentleman  of  Europe, 
undertook  to  place  beneath  the  special  patronage 
of  Apollo.  The  attractions,  however,  of  The 
Learned  Ring,  set  all  other  pleasures  in  the 
shade,  and  the  name,  Peter  Corcoran,  which  is 
a  pseudonym,  is,  I  suppose,  chosen  merely 
because  the  iniJals  are  those  of  the  then  famous 
Pugilistic  Club.  The  poet  is,  in  short,  the 
laureate  of  the  P.  C,  and  his  book  stands  in  the 
same  relation  to  Boxiana  that  Campbell's  lyrics 
do  to  Nelson's  despatches.  To  understand  the 
poet's  position,  we  ought  to  be  dressed  as  he 
was  ;   we  ought 

to  wear  a  rough  drab  coat 
With  large  pearl  buttons  all  afioat 

S 


274  Gossip  in  a  Library 

Upon  the  waves  of  plush  ;  to  tie 
i/t  kerchief  of  the  king-cup  dye 
(White-spotted  tvith  a  small  bird's  eye) 
(Around  the  neck, — and  from  the  nape 
Let  fall  an  easy,  fan-like  cape, 

and,  in  fact,  to  belong  to  that  incredible  com- 
pany of  Tom  and  Jerry  over  whom  Thackeray 
let  fall  so  delightfully  the  elegiac  tear. 

Anthologies  are  not  edited  in  a  truly  catholic 
spirit,  or  they  would  contain  this  very  remarkable 
sonnet : 

ON  THE  NONPAREIL. 
'*  3{me  hut  himself  can  be  his  parallel.'' 

With  fnarble-coloured  shoulders,— and  keen  eyes, 
'Protected  by  a  forehead  broad  and  white, — 
^nd  hair  cut  close  lest  it  impede  the  sight, 

tAnd  clenched  hands,  firm,  and  of  punislnng  size, — ■ 

Steadily  held,  or  motion' d  wary-wise 

To  hit  or  stop, — and  kerchief  too  drazvn  tight 
O'er  the  unyielding  loins,  to  keep  from  flight 

The  inconstant  zvind,  that  all  too  often  flies, — 

The  Nonpareil  stands  I     Fame,  zvhose  bright  eyes 
run  o'er 
With  joy  to  see  a  Chicken  of  her  ozvn, 
'Dips  her  rich  pen  in  claret,  and  zvrites  down 


The  Fancy  275 

Under  the  letter  R,  first  on  the  score, 

**  Randall, — John, — Irish  Tarents, — age  not 
known, — 
Good  with  both  hands,  and  on'y  ten  stone  four  f  " 

Be  not  too  hard  on  this  piece  of  barbarism, 
virtuous  reader !  Virtue  is  well  revenged  by 
the  inevitable  question  :  "  Who  was  John 
Randall?"  In  1820  it  was  said  :  "  Of  all  the 
great  men  in  this  age,  in  poetry,  philosophy  or 
pugilism,  there  is  no  one  of  such  transcendent 
talent  as  Randall,  no  one  who  combines  the 
finest  natural  powers  with  the  most  elegant  and 
finished  acquired  ones."  Now,  if  his  memory 
be  revived  for  a  moment,  this  master  of  science, 
who  doubled  up  an  opponent  as  if  he  were  pluck- 
ing a  flower,  and  whose  presence  turned  Moulsey 
Hurst  into  an  Olympia,  is  in  danger  of  being  con- 
founded with  the  last  couple  of  drunken  Irish- 
women who  have  torn  out  each  other's  hair  in 
handfuls  in  some  Whitechapel  courtyard.  Tlie 
mighty  have  fallen,  the  stakes  and  ring  are  gone 
forever,  and  Virtue  is  avenged.  The  da3^s  of 
George   IV.  are   so  long,  long  gone   past    that  a 


I'jG  Gossip  in  a  Library 

paradoxical  creature  may  be  forgiven  for  a   sigh 
over  the  ashes  of  the  glory  of  John  Randall. 

It  is  strange  how  much  genuine  poetry  lingers 
in  this  odd  collection  of  verses  in  praise  of  prize- 
fighting. There  are  lines  and  phrases  that  recall 
Keats  himself,  though  truly  the  tone  of  the  book 
is  robust  enough  to  satisfy  the  most  impassioned 
of  Tory  editors.  As  it  happens,  it  was  written 
by  Keats's  dearest  friend,  by  John  Hamilton 
Reynolds,  whom  the  great  poet  mentions  so 
affec::ionately  in  the  latest  of  all  his  letters. 
Reynolds  has  been  treated  with  scant  con- 
sideration by  the  critics.  His  verses,  I  protest, 
are  no  whit  less  graceful  or  sparkling  than  those 
of  his  more  eminent  companions,  Leigh  Hunt 
and  Barry  Cornwall.  His  Garden  of  Flore r.ce  is 
worthy  of  the  friend  of  Keats.  We  have  seen 
how  his  Peter  Bell,  which  was  Peter  Bell  the  First, 
took  the  wind  out  of  Shelle3^'s  satiric  sails  and 
fluttered  the  dove-cotes  of  the  Lakeists.  He  was 
as  smart  as  he  could  be,  too  clever  to  live,  in 
fact,  too  light  a  weight  for  a  grave  age.  In 
The  Fancy,  which  Keats  seems  to  refer  to  in  a 
letter  dated  January  13th,  1820,  Reynolds  appears 


The  Fancy  277 

to  have  been  inspired  by  Tom  Moore's  Tom  Crib, 
but  if  so,  he  vastly  improves  on  that  rather 
vulgar  original.  He  takes  as  his  motto,  with 
adroit  impertinence,  some  lines  of  Wordsworth, 
and  persuades  us 

nor  need  zve  blame  the  licensed  joys^ 
Though  fake  to  Nature's  quiet  equipoise  : 
Frank  are  the  sports^  the  stains  are  fugitive. 

We  can  fancy  the  countenance  of  the  Cumbrian 
sage  at  seeing  his  words  thus  nimbly  adapted  to 
be  an  apology  for  prize-fighting. 

The  poems  are  feigned  to  be  the  remains  of 
one  Peter  Corcoran,  student  at  law.  A  simple 
and  pathetic  memoir — which  deserved  to  be  as 
successful  as  that  most  fehcitous  of  all  such 
hoaxes,  the  life  of  the  supposed  Italian  poet, 
Lorenzo  Stecchetti — introduces  us  to  the  un- 
fortunate young  Irishman,  who  was  innocently 
engaged  to  a  charming  lady,  when,  on  a  certain 
August  afternoon,  he  strayed  by  chance  into  the 
Fives  Court,  witnessed  a  "  sparring-exhibition " 
by  two  celebrated  pugilists,  and  was  thenceforth 
a  lost   character.      From   that   moment    nothing 


278  Gossip  in  a  Library- 

interested  him  except  a  favourite  hit  or  a  scientific 
parry,  and  his  only  topic  of  conversation  became 
the  noble  art  of  self-defence.  To  his  disgusted 
lady-love  he  took  to  writing  eulogies  of  the 
Chicken  and  the  Nonpareil.  On  one  occasion  he 
appeared  before  her  with  two  black  eyes,  for  he 
could  not  resist  the  temptation  of  taking  part  in 
the  boxing,  and  "it  is  known  that  he  has  parried 
the  difficult  and  ravaging  hand  of  Randall  him- 
self." The  attachment  of  the  young  lady  had 
long  been  declining,  and  she  took  this  oppor- 
tunity of  forbidding  him  her  presence  for  the 
future.  He  felt  this  abandonment  bitterly,  but 
could  not  surrender  the  all-absorbing  passion 
which  was  destroying  him.  He  fell  into  a  decline, 
and  at  last  died  "  witliout  a  struggle,  just  after 
writing  a  sonnet  to  IVcst-Cmmtry  Dick^ 

The  poems  so  ingeniously  introduced,  consist 
of  a  kind  of  sporting  opera  called  King  Tims  the 
First,  which  is  the  tragedy  of  an  emigrant 
butcher  ;  an  epic  fragment  in  ottava  rima,  called 
The  Fields  of  Tothill,  in  which  the  author  rambles 
on  in  the  Byronic  manner,  and  ceases,  fatigued 
with   his    task,  before   he   has   begun  to  get   his 


The  Fancy  279 

story  under  weigh  ;  and  miscellaneous  pieces. 
Some  of  these  latter  are  simply  lyrical  exercises, 
and  must  have  been  written  in  Peter  Corcoran's 
earlier  days.  The  most  characteristic  and  the 
best  deal,  however,  with  the  science  of  fisticuffs. 
Here  are  the  lines  sent  by  the  poet  to  his 
mistress  on  the  painful  occasion  which  we  have 
described  above,  "  after  a  casual  turn  up"  : — 

Forgive  me, — and  never,  oh,  never  again, 
rn  cultivate  light  blue  or  brown  inebriety  ;* 

Til  give  up  all  chance  of  a  fracture  or  sprain, 

And  part,  worst  of  all,  with  Pierce  Egati's\  society. 

Forgive  me, — and  mufflers  I'll  carefully  pull 

O'er  my  knuckles  hereafter,  to  make  them  well  bred ; 

To  mollify  digs  in  the  kidneys  with  wool, 

And  temper  with  leather  a  punch  of  the  head. 

And,  Kate  I — if  you'll  fib  from  your  forehead  that  frown. 
And  spar  with  a  lighter  and  prettier  tone  ; — 

Til  look, — if  the  swelling  should  ever  go  down. 

And  these  eyes  look  again, —  upon  you,  love,  alone  ! 

It  must  be  confessed  that  a  less  "  fancy"  vocabulary 

*  "Heavy  hrciun  with  a  dash  of  blue  in  it  "  was  the  fancy  phrase 
for  stout  mixed  with  gin. 
t  The  author  of  Boxiana, 


280  Gossip  in  a  Library 

would  here  have  shown  a  juster  sense  of  Peter's 
position.  Sometimes  there  is  no  burlesque  inten- 
tion apparent,  but,  in  their  curious  way,  the  verses 
seem  to  express  a  genuine  enthusiasm.  It  is 
neither  to  be  expected  nor  to  be  feared  that  any 
one  nowadays  will  seriously  attempt  to  resusci- 
tate the  most  barbarous  of  pastimes,  and  there- 
fore, without  conscientious  scruples,  we  may 
venture  to  admit  that  these  are  very  fine  and 
very  thrilling  verses  in  their  own  unexampled 
class  : 

04  /'/  is  life  !  to  see  a  proud 

tAnd  dauntless  man  step,  full  of  hopes, 

Up  to  the  7.  C.  stakes  and  ropes, 

Throw  in  his  hat,  and  with  a  spring 

(^et  gallantly  within  the  ring  ; 

Eye  the  wide  crowd,  and  wall^  awhile 

Taking  all  cheerings  with  a  smile  ; 

To  see  him  strip, — his  well-trained  form, 

White,  glowing,  muscular,  and  warm, 

till  beautiful  in  conscious  power, 

Relaxed  and  quiet,  till  the  hour ; 

His  glossy  and  transparent  frame, 

In  radiant  plight  to  strive  for  fame  I 

To  looli  upon  the  clean-shafd  limb 

In  sill^  andfannel  clothed  trim  ; — 


The  Fancy  281 

While  round  the  waist  the  kerchief  tied 
(Makes  the  fie sh  glow  in  richer  pride. 
^Tis  more  than  life,  to  watch  him  hold 
His  hand  forth,  tremulous  yet  boldy 
Over  his  second'' s,  and  to  clasp 
His  rival's  in  a  quiet  grasp  ; 
To  watch  the  noble  attitude 
He  takes, — the  crowd  in  breathless  mood, — • 
e/fnd  then  to  see,  with  adamant  start. 
The  muscles  set, — and  the  great  heart 
Hurl  a  courageous,  splendid  light 
Into  the  eye, — ajid  then — the  FjgHT, 

This  is  like  a  lithograph  out  of  one  of  Pierce 
Egan's  books,  only  much  more  spirited  and  pic- 
turesque, and  displaying  a  far  higher  and  more 
Hellenic  sense  of  the  beauty  of  athletics.  Rey- 
nolds' little  volume,  however,  enjoyed  no  success. 
The  genuine  amateurs  of  the  prize-ring  did  not 
appreciate  being  celebrated  in  good  verses,  and 
The  Fancy  has  come  to  be  one  of  the  rarest  of 
literary  curiosities. 


ULTRA-CREPIDARIUS 


Ultra-crepidarius 


Ultra-CREPIDARIUS  ;  a  Satire  on  WiU'iam  Cjtfford.  %  Leigh  ''''-  '* 
London,  1823  ;  printed  for  John  Hunt,  22,  Old  'Bond  Street,  and 
38,  Ta-vistock  Street,  Co'vent  Qarden. 

If  the  collector  of  first  editions  requires  an 
instance  from  which  to  justify  the  faith  which  is 
in  him  against  those  who  cry  out  that  bibliography 
is  naught,  Leigh  Hunt  is  a  good  example  to  his 
hand.  This  active  and  often  admirable  writer, 
during  a  busy  professional  life,  issued  a  long 
series  of  works  in  prose  and  verse  which  are  of 
every  variety  of  commonness  and  scarcity,  but 
which  have  never  been,  and  probably  never  will 
be,  reprinted  as  a  whole.  Yet  not  to  possess 
the  works  of  Leigh  Hunt  is  to  be  ill-equipped  for 
the  minute  study  of  literary  history  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  century.  The  original  1816  edition 
of  Rimini,  for  instance,  is  of  a  desperate  rarity, 


286'  Gossip  in  a  Library 

yet  not  to  be  able  to  refer  to  it  in  the  grotesque- 
ness  of  this  its  earliest  form  is  to  miss  a  most  curi- 
ous proof  of  the  crude  taste  of  the  young  school  out 
of  which  Shelley  and  Keats  were  to  arise.  The 
scarcest  of  all  Leigh  Hunt's  poetical  pamphlets, 
but  by  no  means  the  least  interesting,  is  that 
whose  title  stands  at  the  head  of  this  chapter.  Of 
Ultra-crepidariiis,  which  was  "  printed  for  John 
Hunt"  in  1823,  it  is  believed  that  not  half  a 
dozen  copies  are  in  existence,  and  it  has  never 
been  reprinted.  It  is  a  rarity,  then,  to  which 
the  most  austere  despisers  of  first  editions  may 
allow  a  special  interest. 

From  internal  evidence  we  find  that  Ultra- 
crepidarms ;  a  Satire  on  William  Gifford,  was  sent 
to  press  in  the  summer  of  1823,  from  Maiano, 
soon  after  the  break-up  of  Hunt's  household  in 
Genoa,  and  Byron's  departure  for  Greece.  The 
poem  is  the  "  stick  "  which  had  been  recently 
mentioned  in  the  third  number  of  the  Liberal: — 

Have  I,  these  Jive  years,  spared  the  dog  a  stick. 
Cut  for  his  special  use,  and  reasonably  thick  ? 

It  had  been  written  in   18 18,  in  consequence  of 


Ultra-crepidarius  287 

the  famous  review  in  the  Quarterly  of  Keats's 
Endymion,  a  fact  which  the  biographers  of  Keats 
do  not  seem  to  have  observed.  Why  did  Hunt  not 
immediately  print  it  ?  Perhaps  because  to  have 
done  so  would  have  been  worse  than  useless  in 
the  then  condition  of  public  taste  and  temper. 
What  led  Hunt  to  break  through  his  intention  of 
suppressing  the  poem  it  might  be  difficult  to  dis- 
cover. At  all  events,  in  the  summer  of  1823  he 
suddenly  sent  it  home  for  publication  ;  whether 
it  was  actually  published  is  doubtful,  it  was  pro- 
bably only  circulated  in  private  to  a  handful  of 
sympathetic  Tory-hating  friends. 

Ultra-crcpidarius  is  written  in  the  same  ana- 
paestic measure  as  The  Feast  of  the  Poets,  but  is 
somewhat  longer.  As  a  satire  on  William  Giffbrd 
it  possessed  the  disadvantage  of  coming  too  late 
in  the  day  to  be  of  any  service  to  an^'body.  At 
the  close  of  1823  Gifford,  in  failing  health,  was 
resigning  the  editorial  chair  of  the  Quarterly,  which 
he  had  made  so  formidable,  and  was  retiring  into 
private  life,  to  die  in  1826.  The  poem  probably 
explains,  however,  what  has  always  seemed  a 
little  difficult  to  comprehend,  the  extreme  personal 


288  Gossip  in  a  Library- 

bitterness  with  which  Gifford,  at  the  close  of  his 
career,  regarded  Hunt,  since  the  slayer  of  the 
Delia  Cruscans  was  not  the  man  to  tolerate  being 
treated  as  though  he  were  a  Delia  Cruscan  himself. 
However  narrow  the  circulation  oiUltra-crepidarius 
may  have  been,  care  was  no  doubt  taken  that  the 
editor  of  the  Quarterly  Review  should  receive  one 
copy  at  his  private  address,  and  Leigh  Hunt 
returned  from  Italy  in  time  for  that  odd  incident 
to  take  place  at  the  Roxburgh  sale,  when  Barron 
Field  called  his  attention  to  the  fact  that  "  a  little 
man,  with  a  warped  frame,  and  a  countenance 
between  the  querulous  and  the  angry,  was 
gazing  at  me  with  all  his  might."  Hunt  tells 
this  story  in  the  Autobiography ,  from  which,  how- 
ever, he  omits  all  allusion  to  his  satire. 

The  latter  opens  with  the  statement  that— — 

'  lis  now  about  fifty  or  sixty  years  since 

(The  date  of  a  charming  old  boy  of  a  Prince) — 

Mercury  was  in  a  state  of  rare  fidget  from  the 
discovery  that  he  had  lost  one  of  his  precious 
winged  shoes,  and  had  in  consequence  dawdled 
away  a  whole  week  in  company  with  Venus,  not 


Ultra-crepidarius  289 

having  dreamed  that  it  was  that  crafty  goddess 
herself,  who,  wishing  for  a  pair  like  them,  had 
sent  one  of  Mercury's  shoes  down  to  Ashburton 
for  a  pattern.  Venus  confesses  her  peccadillo, 
and  offers  to  descend  to  the  Devonshire  borough 
with  her  lover,  and  see  what  can  have  become  of 
the  ethereal  shoe.  As  they  reach  the  ground, 
they  meet  with  an  ill-favoured  boot  of  leather, 
which  acknowledges  that  it  has  ill-treated  the  deli- 
cate slipper  of  Mercury.  This  boot,  of  course,  is 
Gilford,  who  had  been  a  shoemaker's  apprentice  in 
Ashburton.  Mercury  curses  this  unsightly  object, 
and  part  of  his  malediction  may  here  be  quoted  : 

/  hear  some  one  say  "  (Murrain  take  him,  the  ape  I " 
t/Ind  so  ^Murrain  shall,  in  a  bookseller's  shape  ; 
tdn  evil-eyed  elf,  in  a  down-looking  flurry. 
Who'd  fain  be  a  coxcomb,  and  calls  hi?nself  Murray. 
jidorn  thou  his  door,  like  the  sign  of  the  Shoe, 
For  court-understrappers  to  congregate  to  ; 
For  Southey  to  come,  in  his  dearth  of  invention, 
t/fnd  eat  his  own  words  for  mock-praise  and  a  pension  ; 
For  Croker  to  lur\  with  his  spider-like  limb  in, 
t4nd  stoc\  his  lean  bag  with  waylaying  the  wotnen  ; 
Jlnd  Jove  only  knows  for  what  creatures  beside 
To  shelter  their  envy  and  dust-liking  pride, 

T 


290  Gossip  in  a  Library 

tAnd  feed  on  corruption^  like  hats,  who  at  nights, 

In  the  dar\  take  their  shuffles,  which  they  call  their  flights  ; 

'Be  these  the  court-critics  and  vamp  a  Review. 

^nd  by  a  poor  figure,  and  therefore  a  true, 

For  it  suits  with  thy  nature,  both  shoe-like  and  slaughterly 

'Be  its  hue  leathern,  and  title  the  Quarterly, 

S\luch  misconduct ;  and  see  that  the  others 

(Misdeem,  and  misconstrue,  like  ?niscreant  brothers  ; 

(Misquote,  and  misplace,  and  mislead,  and  jnisstate, 

(Misapply,  misinterpret,  misreckon,  misdate, 

tAIisinform,  misconjecture,  misargue  ;  in  short, 

(Miss  all  that  is  good,  that  ye  miss  not  the  Court. 


tAnd  finally,  thou,  my  old  soul  of  the  tritical, 
(Mooting,  translating,  high  slavish,  hot  critical, 
^/arterly-scutcheon'd,  great  heir  to  each  dunce, 
'Be  Tibbald,  Cook,  Arnall,  and  Demiis  at  once. 

At  the  end,  Mercury  dooms  the  ugly  boot  to  take 
the  semblance  of  a  man,  and  the  satire  closes 
with  its  painful  metamorphosis  into  Gifford.  Tlie 
poem  is  not  without  cleverness,  but  it  is  chiefly 
remarkable  for  a  savage  tone  which  is  not,  we 
think,  repeated  elsewhere  throughout  the  writings 
,'  of  Hunt.  The  allusions  to  Gifford's  relations, 
nearly  half  a  century  earlier,  to  that  Earl  Grosve- 


Ultra-crepidarius  291 

nor  who  first  rescued  him  from  poverty,  the 
well-deserved  scorn  of  his  intolerable  sneers  at 
Perdita  Robinson's  crutches — 

Hate  Woman,  thou  block  in  the  path  of  fair  feet ; 
If  Fate  want  a  hand  to  distress  them,  thine  be  it ; 
When  the  Great,  and  their  flourishing  vices,  are  mentioned 
Say  people  ^^  impute"  V/«,  and  shozo  thoU  art  pensioned ; 
'But  meet  with  a  Trince^s  old  mistress  discarded, 
t/fnd  then  let  the  zoorld  see  how  vice  is  rewarded—^ 

the  indications  of  the  satirist's  acquaintance  with 
the  private  life  of  his  victim,  all  these  must  have 
stung  the  editor  of  the  Quarterly  to  the  quick,  and 
are  very  little  in  Hunt's  usual  manner,  though  he 
had  examples  for  them  in  Peter  Pindar  and  others. 
There  is  a  very  early  allusion  to  "  Mr.  Keats  and 
Mr.  Shelley,"  where,  "  calm,  up  above  thee,  they 
soar  and  they  shine  "  This  was  written  imme- 
diately after  the  review  of  Endymion  in  the 
Quatierly.  At  the  close  is  printed  an  extremely 
vigorous  onslaught  of  Hazlitt's  upon  Gifford, 
which  is  better  known  than  the  poem  which  it 
illustrates.  In  itself,  in  its  preface,  and  in  its 
notes  alike  this  very  rare  pamphlet  presents  us 
with  a  genuine  curiosit}'^  of  literature. 


THE    DUKE    OF    RUTLAND'S    POEMS 


The  Duke  of  Rutland's  Poems 

Engmnd's  Trust  and  Other  Poems.  'By  Lord  John  ayifatwers. 
London  :  printed  for  J.  g.  &  J.  %i'vingtvi,  St.  Taul's  Qhurch 
Yard,  and  Watcloo  Place,  Pall  Mall.      1841. 

jMY  newspaper  informed  me  this  morning  that 
Lord  John  Manners  took  his  seat  last  night,  in 
the  Upper  House,  as  the  Duke  of  Rutland. 
These  little  romantic  surprises  are  denied  to 
Americans,  who  do  not  find  that  old  friends  get 
new  names,  which  are  very  old  names,  in  the 
course  of  a  night.  My  Transatlantic  readers  will 
never  have  to  grow  accustomed  to  -speak  of  Mr. 
Lowell  as  the  Earl  of  Mount  Auburn,  and  I  firmly 
believe  that  Mr.  Howells  would  consider  it  a  chas- 
tisement to  be  hopelessly  ennobled.  But  my 
thoughts  went  wandering  back  at  my  breakfast 
to-day  to  those  far-away  times,  the  fresh  memory 
of  which  was  still   reverberating  about  my  child- 


296  Gossip  in  a  Library- 

hood,  when  the  last  new  Duke  was  an  ardent 
and  ingenuous  young  patriot,  who  never  dreamed 
of  being  a  peer,  and  who  hoped  to  refashion  his 
country  to  the  harp  of  Amphion.  So  I  turned, 
with  assuredly  no  feeling  of  disrespect,  to  that 
corner  of  my  library  where  the  peche's  de  jeunesse 
stand — the  little  books  of  early  verses  which  the 
respectable  authors  of  the  same  would  destroy  if 
they  could — and  I  took  down  England's  Trust. 

Fifty  years  ago  a  group  of  young  men,  all  of 
them  fresh  from  Oxford  and  Cambridge,  most  of 
them  more  or  less  born  in  the  purple  oi"  good 
families,  banded  themselves  together  to  create  a 
sort  of  aristocratic  democracy.  They  called 
themselves  "  Young  England,"  and  the  chronicle 
of  them — is  it  not  patent  to  all  men  in  the  pages 
of  Disraeli's  Coningsby?  In  the  hero  of  that 
novel  people  saw  a  portrait  of  the  leader  of  the 
group,  the  Hon.  George  Percy  Sydney  Smythe, 
to  whom  also  the  poems  now  before  us,  parvus 
non  parvcB  pignus  amiciticu,  were  dedicated  in 
a  warm  inscription.  The  Sidonia  of  the  story 
was  doubtless  only  echoing  what  Smythe  had 
laid  down  as  a  dogma  when   he   said  :   "  Man  is 


The  Duke  of  Rutland's  Poems    297 

only  truly  great  when  he  acts  from  the  passions, 
never  irresistible  but  when  he  appeals  to  the 
imagination."  It  was  the  theory  of  Young  Eng- 
land that  the  historic  memory  must  be  awakened 
in  the  lower  classes ;  that  utilitarianism  was 
sapping  the  very  vitals  of  society,  and  that 
ballads  and  May-poles  and  quaint  festivities  and 
processions  of  a  loyal  peasantry  were  the  proper 
things  for  politicians  to  encourage.  It  was  all 
very  young,  and  of  course  it  came  to  nothing. 
But  I  do  not  know  that  the  Piimrose  League  is 
any  improvement  upon  it,  and  I  fancy  that  when 
the  Duke  of  Rutland  looks  back  across  the  half- 
century  he  sees  something  to  smile  at,  but 
nothing  to  blush  for. 

One  of  the  notions  that  Young  England  had 
got  hold  of  was  that  famous  saying  of  Fletcher 
of  Saltoun's  friend  about  making  the  ballads  of  a 
people.  So  they  set  themselves  verse-making, 
and  a  quaint  little  collection  of  books  it  was  that 
they  produced,  all  smelling  ahke  at  this  time  of 
day,  with  a  faint,  faded  perfume  of  the  hay-stack, 
countrified  and  wild.  Mr.  Smythe,  who  pre- 
sently became  Lord   Strangford   and    one  of  the 


298  Gossip  in  a  Library- 

wittiest  of  Morning  Chroniclers,  only  to  die 
bitterly  lamented  at  the  age  of  forty,  wrote 
Historic  Fancies.  Mr.  Faber,  then  a  fellow  of 
University  College,  Oxford,  and  afterwards  a 
leading  spirit  among  English  Catholics,  published 
The  Cherwell  Water-Lily,  in  1840,  and  on  the 
heels  of  this  discreet  volume  came  the  poems  of 
Lord  John  Manners, 

When  England'' s  Trust  appeared,  its  author 
had  just  left  Cambridge.  Almost  immediately 
afterward,  it  was  decided  that  Young  England 
ought  to  be  represented  in  Parliament,  where  its 
Utopian  chivalries,  it  was  believed,  needed  only 
to  be  heard  to  prevail.  Accordingly  Lord  John 
Manners  presented  himself,  in  June  1841,  as  one 
of  the  Conservative  candidates  for  the  borough 
of  Newark.  He  was  elected,  and  so  was  the 
other  Tory  candidate,  a  man  already  distin- 
guished, and  at  present  known  to  the  entire 
world  as  Mr.  W.  E.  Gladstone.  On  the  hust- 
ings, Lord  John  Manners  was  a  good  deal 
heckled,  and  in  particular  he  was  teased  exces- 
sively about  a  certain  couplet  in  England's  Trust. 
I  am  not  going  to  repeat   that   couplet   here,  for 


The  Duke  of  Rutland's  Poems    299 

after  nearly  half  a  century  the  Duke  of  Rutland 
has  a  right  to  be  forgiven  that  extraordinary 
indiscretion.  If  any  of  my  readers  turn  to  the 
volume  for  themselves,  which,  of  course,  I  have 
no  power  to  prevent  their  doing,  they  will  pro- 
bably exclaim  :  "  Was  it  the  Duke  of  Rutland 
who  wrote  that  ?"  for  if  frequency  of  quotation  is 
the  hall-mark  of  popularity,  his  Grace  must  be 
one  of  the  most  popular  of  our  living  poets. 

There  is  something  exceedingly  pathetic  in 
this  little  volume.  Its  weakness  as  verse,  for  it 
certainly  is  weak,  has  nothing  ignoble  about  it, 
and  what  is  weak  without  being  in  the  least  base 
has  already  a  negative  distinction.  The  author 
hopes  to  be  a  Lovelace  or  a  Montrose,  equally 
ready  to  do  his  monarch  service  with  sword  or 
pen.  The  Duke  of  Rutland  has  not  quite  been 
a  Montrose,  but  he  has  been  something  less 
brilliant  and  much  more  useful,  a  faithful  servant 
of  his  country,  through  an  upright  and  laborious 
life.  The  young  poet  of  1841,  thrilled  by  the 
Tractarian  enthusiasm  of  the  moment,  looked  for 
a  return  of  the  high  festivals  of  the  Church,  for  a 
victory  of  faith  over  all  its  Paynim  foes.      "  The 


300  Gossip  in  a  Library 


worst  evils,"  he  writes,  "  from  which  we  are  now 
suffering,  have  arisen  from  our  ignorant  contempt 
or  neglect  of  the  rules  of  the  Church."  He  was 
full  of  Newman  and  Pusey,  of  the  great  Oxford 
movement  of  1837,  of  the  wind  of  fervour  blow- 
ing through  England  from  the  common-room  of 
Oriel.  Now  all  is  changed  past  recognition,  and 
with,  perhaps,  the  sohtary  exception  of  Cardinal 
Newman,  preserved  in  extreme  old  age,  Hke 
some  precious  exotic,  in  his  Birmingham  cloister, 
the  Duke  of  Rutland  may  look  through  the  length 
and  breadth  of  England  without  recovering  one 
of  those  lost  faces  that  fed  the  pure  passion  of 
his  youth. 

The  hand  which  brought  the  flame  from  Oriel 
to  the  Cambridge  scholar,  was  that  of  the  Rev. 
Frederick  William  Faber,  and  a  great  number  of 
the  poems  in  England's  Trust  are  dedicated  to  him 
openly  or  secretly.  Here  is  a  sonnet  addressed 
to  Faber,  which  is  very  pleasant  to  read  : — 

T>ear  Friend  !  thou  askest  me  to  sing  our  loves ^ 
^nd  sing  them  fain  zvould  I ;  but  I  do  fear 

To  mar  so  soft  a  theme  ;  a  thejne  that  moves 
{My  heart  unto  its  core.     O  friend  most  dear  ! 


The  Duke  of  Rutland's  Poems    301 

3^  light  request  is  thine  ;  albeit  it  proves 
Thy  gentleness  and  love,  that  do  appear 
When  absent  thus,  and  in  soft  looks  when  near. 

Surely,  if  ever  two  fond  hearts  were  twined 
In  a  most  holy,  mystic  knot,  so  now 

Jlre  ours  ;  not  common  are  the  ties  that  bind 
3^y  soul  to  thine ;  a  dear  Apostle  thou, 

I  a  young  Neophyte  that  yearns  to  find 

The  sacred  truth,  and  stamp  upon  his  ( -ozo 
The  Cross,  dread  sign  of  his  baptismal  vow  I 

The  Apostle  was  only  twelve  months  older 
than  the  Neophyte,  who  was  in  his  twenty-third 
year,  but  he  was  a  somewhat  better  as  well  as 
stronger  poet.  The  Cherwell  Water-Lily  is 
rather  a  rare  book  now,  and  I  may  perhaps  be 
allowed  to  give  an  example  of  Faber's  style.  It 
is  from  one  of  many  poems  in  which,  with  some- 
thing borrowed  too  consciously  from  Wordsworth, 
who  was  the  very  Apollo  of  Young  England, 
there  is  yet  a  rendering  of  the  beauty  and 
mystery  of  Oxford,  and  of  the  delicate  sylvan 
scenery  which  surrounds  it,  which  is  wholly 
original  : 

There  is  a  well,  a  willow-shaded  spot^ 
Cool  in  the  noon-tide  gleam, 


302  Gossip  in  a  Library 

With  rushes  nodding  in  the  little  stream^ 
tdnd  blue  forget-me-not 

Set  in  thick  tufts  along  the  bushy  marge 

With  big  bright  eyes  of  gold ; 

JInd  glorious  water-plants,  li\e  fans,  unfold 
Their  blossoms  strange  and  large. 

That  wandering  boy,  young  Hylas,  did  not  find 

'beauties  so  rich  and  rare, 

Where  swallow-wort  and  pale-bright  maiden's  hair 
t/fnd  dog-grass  richly  twined. 

e/  sloping  bank  ran  round  it  like  a  crown. 

Whereon  a  purple  cloud 

Of  dar\  wild  hyacinths,  a  fairy  crowd. 
Had  settled  softly  down. 

Jtnd  dreamy  sounds  of  never-ending  bells 

From  Oxford's  holy  towers 

Came  down  the  stream,  a?id  went  among  the 
flowers, 
^nd  died  in  little  swells. 

These  two  extracts  give  a  fair  notion  of  the 
Tractarian  poetry,  with  its  purity,  its  idealism, 
its  love  of  Nature  and  its  unreal  conception  of 
life.  Faber  also  wrote  an  England's  Trust,  be- 
fore Lord  John  Manners   published   his  ;  and   in 


The  Duke  of  Rutland's  Poems    303 

this  he  rejoices  in  the  passing  away  of  all  the 
old  sensual  confidence,  and  in  the  coming  of  a 
new  age  of  humility  and  spirituality.  Alas  !  it 
never  came  !  There  was  a  roll  in  the  wave  of 
thought,  a  few  beautiful  shells  were  thrown  up 
on  the  shore  of  literature,  and  then  the  little 
eddy  of  Tractarianism  was  broken  and  spent,  and 
lost  in  the  general  progress  of  mankind.  We 
touch  with  reverend  pity  the  volumes  without 
which  we  should  scarcely  know  that  Young 
England  had  ever  existed,  and  we  refuse  to 
believe  that  all  the  enthusiasm  and  piety  and 
courage  of  which  they  are  the  mere  ashes,  have 
wholly  passed  away.  They  have  become  spread 
over  a  wide  expanse  of  effort,  and  no  one  knows 
who  has  been  graciously  affected  by  them.  Who 
shall  say  that  some  distant  echo  of  the  Cherwell 
harp  was  not  sounding  in  the  heart  of  Gordon 
when  he  went  to  his  African  martyrdom  ?  It  is 
her  adventurers,  whether  of  the  pen  or  of  the 
sword,  that  have  made  England  what  she  is. 
But  if  every  adventurer  succeeded,  where  would 
the  adventure  be  ? 

The  Duke  of  Rutland  soon   repeated   his   first 


304  Gossip  in  a  Library 

little  heroic  expedition  into  the  land  of  verses. 
He  published  a  volume  of  English  Ballads  ;  but 
this  has  not  the  historical  interest  which  makes 
finglancfs  Trust  a  curiosity.  He  has  written 
about  Church  Rates,  and  the  Colonies,  and  the 
Importance  of  Literature  to  Men  of  Business, 
but  never  again  of  his  reveries  in  Neville's  Court 
nor  of  his  determination  to  emulate  the  virtues  of 
King  Charles  the  Martyr.  No  matter !  If  all 
our  hereditary  legislators  were  as  high-minded 
and  single-hearted  as  the  new  Duke  of  Rutland, 
the  reform  of  the  House  of  Lords  would  scarcely 
be  a  burning  question. 

1888. 


ION  IC  A 


u 


lonica 

loNICA.      Smith,  Elder  &  C°-i  ^5  C°>'"^'^1-      1S58. 

Good  poetry  seems  to  be  almost  as  inde- 
structible as  diamonds.  You  throw  it  out  of 
window  into  the  roar  of  London,  it  disappears 
in  a  deep  brown  slush,  the  omnibus  and  the 
growler  pass  over  it,  and  by  and  by  it  turns  up 
again  somewhere  uninjured,  with  all  the  pure  fire 
lambent  in  its  facets.  No  doubt  thoroughly 
good  specimens  of  prose  do  get  lost,  dragged 
down  the  vortex  of  a  change  of  fashion,  and 
never  thrown  back  again  to  light.  But  the 
quantity  of  excellent  verse  produced  in  any 
generation  is  not  merely  limited,  but  keeps  very 
fairly  within  the  same  proportions.  The  verse- 
market  is  never  really  glutted,  and  while  popular 
masses  of  what   Mr.    Browning  calls  "  deciduous 


3o8  Gossip  in  a  Library 

trash  "  survive  their  own  generation,  only  to  be 
carted  away,  the  little  excellent,  unnoticed  book 
gradually  pushes  its  path  up  silently  into  fame. 

These  reflections  are  not  inappropriate  in  deal- 
ing with  the  small  volume  of  ii6  pages  called 
lonica,  ushered  into  the  world  thirty-three  years 
ago,  so  silently  that  its  publication  did  not  cause 
a  single  ripple  on  the  sea  of  literature.  Gradually 
this  book  has  become  first  a  rarity  and  then  a 
famous  possession,  so  that  at  the  present  moment 
there  is  perhaps  no  volume  of  recent  English  verse 
so  diminutive  which  commands  so  high  a  price 
among  collectors.  When  the  library  of  Mr.  Henry 
Bradshaw  was  dispersed  in  November  1886,  book- 
buyers  thought  that  they  had  a  chance  of  securing 
chis  treasure  at  a  reasonable  price,  for  it  was 
known  that  the  late  Librarian  of  Cambridge 
University,  an  old  friend  of  the  author,  had  no 
fewer  than  three  copies.  But  at  the  sale  two  of 
tliese  copies  went  for  three  pounds  fifteen  and 
tnree  pounds  ten,  respectively,  and  the  third 
was  knocked  down  for  a  guinea,  because  it  was 
discovered  to  lack  the  title-page  and  the 
index.        I    do    not    myself    think    it    right    to 


lonica  309 

encourage  the  sale  of  imperfect  books,  and  would 
not  have  spent  half  a  crown  on  the  rarest  of 
volumes  if  I  could  not  have  the  title-page.  But 
this  is  only  an  aside,  and  does  not  interfere  with 
the  value  of  lonica. 

The  little  book  has  no  name  on  the  title-page, 
but  it  is  known  that  the  author  is  Mr.  William 
Johnson,  formerly  a  master  at  Eton  and  a  fellow 
of  King's  College,  Cambridge.  It  is  understood 
that  this  gentleman  was  born  about  1823,  and  is 
still  alive  ;  but  tliat  on  coming  into  property,  as 
I  have  heard,  in  the  west  of  England,  he  took 
the  name  of  Cory.  So  that  he  is  doubly  con- 
cealed as  a  poet,  the  anonymous-pseudonymous. 
As  Mr.  William  Cory  he  writes  history,  but  there 
is  but  slight  trace  there  of  the  author  of  lonica. 
In  face  of  the  extreme  rarity  of  his  early  book, 
I  am  told  that  friends  have  urged  upon  Mr.  Cory 
its  republication,  and  that  he  has  consented. 
Probably  he  would  have  done  well  to  refuse,  for 
the  book  is  rather  delicate  and  exquisite  than  for- 
cible, and  to  reprint  it  is  to  draw  public  attention 
to  its  inequality.  Perhaps  I  speakwith  the  narrow- 
mindedness    of   the  collector   who    possesses    a 


310  Gossip  in  a  Library- 

treasure  ;  but  I  think  the  appreciators  of  lonica 
will  always  be  few  in  number,  and  it  seems 
good  for  those  few  to  have  some  difficulties 
thrown  in  the  way  of  their  delights. 

Since  lonica  appeared  great  developments  have 
taken  place  in  English  verse.  In  1858  there  was 
no  Rossctti,  no  Swinburne  ;  we  may  say  that,  as 
far  as  the  general  public  was  concerned,  there 
was  no  Matthew  Arnold  and  no  William  Morris. 
This  fact  has  to  be  taken  into  consideration  in 
dealing  with  the  tender  humanism  of  Mr.  John- 
son's verses.  They  are  less  coruscating  and 
flamboyant  than  what  we  have  since  become 
accustomed  to.  The  tone  is  extremely  pensive, 
sensitive  and  melancholy.  But  where  the  author 
is  at  his  best,  he  is  not  only,  as  it  seems  to  me, 
very  original,  but  singularly  perfect,  with  the 
perfection  of  a  Greek  carver  of  gems.  The 
book  is  addressed  to  and  intended  for  scholars, 
and  the  following  piece,  although  really  a  trans- 
lation, has  no  statement  to  that  effect.  Before 
I  quote  it,  perhaps  I  may  remind  the  ladies  that 
the  original  is  an  epigram  in  the  Greek  Anthology, 
and  that  it  was  written  by  the  great  Alexandrian 


lonica  3 1 1 

poet  Callimachus  on  hearing  the  news  that  the 
poet  Herachtus— not  to  be  confounded  with  the 
philosopher — was  dead. 

They  told  me,  Her  ac  lit  us,  they  told  me  you  were  dead ; 

They  brought  me  bitter  news  to  hear  and  bitter  tears  to  shed. 

I  wept,  as  I  remembered,  hozv  often  you  and  I 

Had  tired  the  sun  with  talking  and  sent  him  down  the  sky. 

Jtnd  now  that  thou  art  lying,  my  dear  old  Carian  guest, 
«//  handful  of  grey  ashes,  Jong  long  ago  at  rest. 
Still  are  thy  pleasant  voices,  thy  nightingales,  awake  ; 
For  Death,  he  taketh  all  away,  but  these  he  cannot  take. 

No  translation  ever  smelt  less  of  the  lamp, 
and  more  of  the  violet  than  this.  It  is  an 
exquisite  addition  to  a  branch  of  English  literature, 
which  is  already  very  rich,  the  poetry  of  elegiacal 
regret.  I  do  not  know  where  there  is  to  be 
found  a  sweeter  or  tenderer  expression  of  a  poet's 
grief  at  the  death  of  a  poet-friend,  grief  mitigated 
only  by  the  knowledge  that  the  dead  man's  songs, 
his  "  nightingales,"  are  outliving  him.  It  is  the 
requiem  of  friendship,  the  reward  of  one  who,  in 
Keats's  wonderful  phrase,  has  left  "  great  verse 
unto  a  little  clan,"  the  last  service  for  the  dead 
to  whom  it  was  enough  to  be  "  unheard,  save  of 


3 1 2  Gossip  in  a  Library 

the  quiet  primrose,  and  the  span  of  heaven,  and 
few  ears."  To  modern  vulgarity,  whose  ideal  of 
Parnassus  is  a  tap-room  of  howling  politicians, 
there  is  nothing  so  offensive,  as  there  is  nothing 
so  incredible,  as  the  notion  that  a  poet  may  hold 
his  own  comrade  something  dearer  than  the 
public.  The  author  of  lonica  would  deserve  well 
of  his  country  if  he  had  done  no  more  than  draw 
this  piece  of  aromatic  calamus-root  from  the 
Greek  waters. 

Among  the  lyrics  which  are  entirely  original, 
there  are  several  not  less  exquisite  than  this 
memory  of  Callimachus.  The  author  is  not  very 
safe  on  modern  ground.  I  confess  that  I  shudder 
when  I  read — 

"  Oh,  loo^  at  his  jacket,  I  know  him  afar  ; 
How  nice,"  cry  the  ladies,  "  looks  yonder  Hu^arP* 

It  needs  a  peculiar  lightness  of  hand  to  give 
grace  to  these  colloquial  numbers,  and  the  author 
of  lonica  is  more  at  home  in  the  dryad-haunted 
forest  with  Comatas.  In  combining  classic  senti- 
ment with  purely  English  landscape  he  is  wonder- 
fully happy. 


lonica 


313 


There  is  not  a  jarring  image  or  discordant 
syllable  to  break  the  glassy  surface  of  this  plain- 
tive Dirge  :• — 

D^aiad,  hid  beneath  the  hank 

'By  the  willowy  river-side, 
Where  Narcissus  gently  sank, 

Where  unmarried  Echo  died, 
Unto  thy  serene  repose 
Waft  the  stricken  Anteros. 

Where  the  tranquil  swan  is  home, 

Imaged  in  a  watery  glass, 
Jf^here  the  sprays  of  fresh  pin\  thorn 

Stoop  to  catch  the  boats  that  pass, 
Where  the  earliest  orchis  grows, 
'Bury  thou  fair  Anteros. 

On  a  flickering  wave  we  gaze, 

tN^ot  upon  his  answering  eyes  : 
Flower  and  bird  we  scarce  can  praise, 

Having  lost  his  sweet  replies  : 
Cold  and  mute  the  river  flows 
With  our  tears  for  ,Anterds. 

We  know  well  where  this  place  of  burial  is  to 
be.  Not  in  some  glade  of  Attica  or  by  Sicilian 
streams,  but  where  a  homelier  river  gushes 
through  the  swollen  lock  at   Bray,  or  shaves  the 


3 1 4  Gossip  in  a  Library 

Icng  pastoral  meadows  at  Boveney,  where 
Thames  begins  to  draw  a  longer  breath  for  his 
passage  between  Eton  and  Windsor. 

The  prevailing  sentiment  of  these  poems  is  a 
wistful  clinging  to  this  present  life,  a  Pagan  op- 
timism which  finds  no  fault  with  human  existence 
save  that  it  is  so  brief.  It  gains  various  expres- 
sion in  words  that  seem  hot  on  a  young  man's  lips, 
and  warm  on  the  same  lips  even  when  no  longer 
young  : 

/'//  borrow  life,  and  not  grow  old  ; 

And  nightingales  and  trees 
Shall  keep  me,  though  the  veins  be  cold^ 

Jls  young  as  Sophocles. 

And  again,  in  poignant  notes  : 

Tou  promise  heavens  free  frotn  strife, 
"Pure  truth,  and  perfect  change  of  will ; 

'But  sweet,  sweet  is  this  human  life, 

So  sweet,  I  fain  would  breathe  it  still ; 

Your  chilly  stars  I  can  forego, 

This  warm,  kind  world  is  all  I  know. 


"J 


This  last  quotation  is  from  the  poem  called 
Mimnetinus  in  Church.  In  this  odd  title  he 
seems  to  refer  to  elegies  of  the  Colophonian  poet, 


lonica  3 1 5 

who  was  famous  in  antiquity  for  the  plaintive 
stress  which  he  laid  on  the  necessity  of  extracting 
from  life  all  it  had  to  offer,  since  there  was 
nothing  beyond  mortal  love,  which  was  the  life 
of  life.  The  author  of  lonica  seems  to  bring  the 
old  Greek  fatalist  to  modern  England,  and  to 
conduct  him  to  church  upon  a  Sunday  morning. 
But  Mimnermus  is  impenitent.  He  confesses  that 
the  preacher  is  right  when  he  says  that  all  earthly 
pleasures  are  fugitive.  He  has  always  confessed 
as  much  at  home  under  the  olive  tree  ;  it  was  be- 
cause they  were  fugitive  that  he  clung  to  them  : 

e///  beauteous  things  by  which  we  live 

'By  laws  of  time  and  space  decay. 
'But  oh  !  the  very  reason  why 
I  clasp  thein  is  because  they  die. 

There  is  perhaps  no  modern  book  of  verse  in 
which  a  certain  melancholy  phase  of  ancient 
thought  is  better  reproduced  than  in  lonica,  and 
this  gives  its  slight  verses  their  lasting  charm. 
We  have  had  numerous  resuscitations  of  ancient 
manners  and  landscape  in  modern  poetry  since 
the  days  of  Keats  and  Andre  Chenier.  Many 
of  these  have  been  so  brilliantly  successful  that 


3i6  Gossip  in  a  Library- 

only  pedantry  would  deny  their  value.  But 
in  lonica  something  is  given  which  the  others 
have  not  known  how  to  give,  the  murmur  of 
antiquity,  the  sigh  in  the  grass  of  meadows 
dedicated  to  Persephone.  It  seems  to  help 
us  to  comprehend  the  little  rites  and  playful 
superstitions  of  the  Greeks  ;  to  see  why  Myro 
built  a  tomb  for  the  grasshopper  she  loved  and 
lost  ;  why  the  shining  hair  of  Lysidice,  when 
she  was  drowned,  should  be  hung  up  with  songs 
of  pity  and  reproach  in  the  dreadful  vestibule  of 
Aphrodite.  The  noisy  blasphemers  of  the  newest 
Paris  strike  the  reader  as  Christian  fanatics  turned 
inside  out ;  for  all  their  vehemence  they  can 
never  lose  the  experience  of  their  religious  birth. 
The  same  thing  is  true  of  the  would-be  Pagans 
of  a  milder  sensuous  type.  The  Cross  prevailed  at 
their  nativity,  and  has  thrown  its  shadow  over 
their  conscience.  But  in  the  midst  of  the  throng 
there  walks  this  plaintive  poet  of  the  lonica,  the 
one  genuine  Pagan,  absolutely  untouched  by  the 
traditions  of  the  Christian  past.  I  do  not  com- 
mend the  fact  ;  I  merely  note  it  as  giving  a  strange 
interest  to  these  forlorn  and  unpopular  poems. 


lonica  317 

Twenty  years  after  the  publication  of  lonica, 
and  when  that  little  book  had  become  famous 
among  the  elect,  the  author  printed  at  Cambridge 
a  second  part,  without  a  title-page,  and  without 
punctuation,  one  of  the  most  eccentric  looking 
pamphlets  I  ever  saw.  The  enthusiastic  amateur 
will  probably  regard  his  collection  incomplete 
without  lonica  II.,  but  he  must  be  prepared  for  a 
disappointment.  There  is  a  to-uch  of  the  old  skill 
here  and  there,  as  in  such  stanzas  as  this  : 

With  half  a  moon,  and  clouds  rose-pin^, 

The  water-lilies  just  in  bud, 
With  iris  on  the  river-brink, 

jtnd  white  zveed-garlands  on  the  mud, 
t/Ind  roses  thin  and  pale  as  dreams, 

^nd  happy  cygnets  born  in  May, 
3^0  wonder  if  our  country  seems 

'Dressed  out  for  Freedom's  natal  day. 

Or  these  : 

Teace  lit  upon  a  fluttering  vein, 

t/fnd  self-forgetting  on  the  brain  ; 

On  rifts  by  passion  wrought  again 

Splashed  from  the  sky  of  childhood  rain, 
Jind  rid  of  afterthought  were  we 
(And  from  foreboding  sweetly  free. 


3i8  Gossip  in  a  Library 


S^ow  falls  the  apple,  bleeds  the  vine, 
And,  moved  by  some  autumnal  sign, 
I  zvho  in  spring  was  glad  7-epinc 
Jind  ache  -without  my  anodyne  ; 

Oh  /  things  that  were  !  Oh  !  things  that  are  ! 

Oh  I  setting  of  my  double  star  I 

But  these  are  rare,  and  the  old   unique  lonica  of 
thirty  years  ago  is  not  repeated. 


THE    SHAVING    OF    SHAGPAT 


The  Shaving  of  Shagpat 

The  Shaving  of  Shagpat,      cAn  Arabian  Entertainment.      By  Qeoige 
z^aedith.      Chapman  and  Hall.      1856. 

It  is  more  than  twenty  years  since  I  first  heard 
of  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat.  I  was  newly  come, 
in  all  my  callow  ardour,  into  the  covenant  of 
Art  and  Letters,  and  I  was  moving  about,  still 
bewildered,  in  a  new  world.  In  this  new  world, 
one  afternoon,  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti,  standing  in 
front  of  his  easel,  remarked  to  all  present  whom 
it  should  concern,  that  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat 
was  a  book  which  Shakespeare  might  have  been 
glad  to  write.  I  now  understand  that  in  the 
warm  Rossetti-language  this  did  not  mean  that 
there  was  anything  specially  reminiscent  of  the 
Bard  of  Avon  in  this  book,  but  simply  that  it 
was  a  monstrous  fine    production,    and    worthy 

X 


322  Gossip  in  a  Library 

of  all  attention.  But  at  the  time  I  expected, 
rom  such  a  title,  something  in  the  way  of  a 
belated  Midsmnmer  Nighfs  Dream  or  Lovers 
Labour  Lost.  I  was  fully  persuaded  that  it  must 
be  a  comedy,  and  as  the  book  even  then  was 
rare,  and  as  I  was  long  pursuing  the  loan  of 
it,  I  got  this  dramatic  notion  upon  my  mind, 
and  to  this  day  do  still  clumsily  connect  it  with 
the  idea  of  Shakespeare.  But  in  truth  The 
Shaving  of  Shagpat  has  no  other  analogy  with 
those  plays,  which  Bacon  would  have  written 
if  he  had  not  been  so  plaguily  occupied,  than 
that  it  is  excellent  in  quality  and  of  the  finest 
literary  flavour. 

The  ordinary  small  library  of  varieties  has 
no  room  for  three- volume  novels,  those  signs- 
manual  of  our  British  dulness  and  crafty  dis- 
dain for  literature.  One  or  two  of  these  simu- 
lacra, these  sham-semblances  of  books,  I  pos- 
sess, because  honoured  friends  have  given  them 
to  me  ;  even  so,  I  would  value  the  gift  more 
in  the  decency  of  a  single  volume.  The  dear 
little  dumpy  twelves  of  the  last  century,  o 
course,  are  welcome  in  a  library.      That  was  a 


The  Shaving  of  Shagpat         323 

happy  day,  when  by  the  discovery  of  a  Ferdi- 
nand Count  Fathom,  I  completed  my  set  of 
Smollett  in  the  original  fifteeen  volumes.  But 
after  the  first  generation  of  novelists,  the  sham 
system  began  to  creep  in.  With  Fanny  Burney, 
novels  grow  too  bulky,  and  it  is  a  question 
whether  even  Scott  or  Jane  Austen  should  be 
possessed  in  the  original  form.  Of  the  moderns, 
only  Thackeray  is  bibliographically  desirable. 
Hence  even  of  Mr.  George  Meredith's  fiction  I 
make  no  effort  to  possess  first  editions  ;  yet  The 
Shaving  of  Shagpat  is  an  exception.  I  toiled 
long  to  secure  it,  and,  now  that  I  hold  it,  may 
its  modest  vermilion  cover  shine  always  like  a 
lamp  upon  my  shelves  !  It  is  not  fiction  to  a 
bibliophile  ;  it  is  worthy  of  all  the  honour  done 
to  verse. 

Within  the  last  five  or  six  years  we  have  had 
the  great  pleasure  of  seeing  tardy  justice  done 
at  length  to  the  genius  of  Mr.  George  Meredith. 
I  like  to  think  that,  after  a  long  and  noble  strug- 
gle against  the  inattention  of  the  public,  after 
the  pouring  of  high  music  for  two  generations 
into  ears  whose  owners  seemed  to  have  wilfully 


324  Gossip  in  a  Library 

sealed  them  with  wax,  so  that  only  the  most 
staccato  and  least  happy  notes  ever  reached  their 
dulness,  Mr.  Meredith  has,  before  the  age  of 
sixty,  reaped  a  little  of  his  reward.  I  am  told 
that  the  movement  in  favour  of  him  began  in 
America  ;  if  so,  more  praise  to  American  readers, 
who  had  to  teach  us  to  appreciate  De  Quincey 
and  Praed  before  we  knew  the  value  of  those 
men.  Yet  is  there  much  to  do.  Had  Mr.  George 
Meredith  been  a  Frenchman,  what  monographs 
had  ere  this  been  called  forth  by  his  work  ;  in 
Germany,  or  Italy,  or  Denmark  even,  such  gifts 
as  his  would  long  ago  have  found  their  classic 
place  above  further  discussion.  But  England  is 
a  Gallic,  and  in  defiance  of  Mr.  Le  Gallienne, 
cares  little  for  the  things  of  literature. 

If  a  final  criticism  of  Mr.  George  Meredith  ex- 
isted, where  in  it  would  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat 
find  Its  place  ?  There  is  fear  that  in  competition 
with  the  series  of  analytical  studies  of  modern 
life  that  stretches  from  The  Ordeal  of  Richard 
Feverel  to  One  of  our  ConqiierorSy  it  might  chance 
to  be  pushed  away  with  a  few  lines  of  praise. 
Now,  I  would  not   seem  so  paradoxical  as  to  say 


The  Shaving  of  Shagpat         325 

that  when  an  extravaganza  is  held  up  to  me  in 
one  hand,  and  a  masterpiece  of  morality  hke 
The  Egoist  in  the  other,  I  can  doubt  which  is 
the  greater  book ;  but  there  are  moods  in  which 
I  am  jealous  of  the  novels,  and  wish  to  be  left 
alone  with  my  Arabian  Eittcrtainment.  Delicious 
in  this  harsh  world  of  reality  to  fold  a  mist 
around  us,  and  out  of  it  to  evolve  the  yellow 
domes  and  black  cypresses,  the  silver  fountains 
and  marble  pillars,  of  the  fabulous  city  of  Shag- 
pat.  I  do  not  know  any  later  book  than  The 
Shaving  in  which  an  Englishman  has  allowed  his 
fancy,  untrammelled  by  any  sort  of  moral  or  intel- 
lectual subterfuge,  to  go  a-roaming  by  the  light 
of  the  moon.  We  do  this  sort  of  thing  no 
longer.  We  are  wholly  given  up  to  realism  ,  we 
are  harshly  pressed  upon  on  all  sides  by  the 
importunities  of  excess  of  knowledge.  If  we  talk 
of  gryphons,  the  zoologists  are  upon  us  ;  of  Oolb 
or  Aklis,  the  geographers  flourish  their  maps  at 
us  in  defiance.  But  the  author  of  The  Shaving  of 
Shagpat,  in  the  bloom  of  his  happy  youthful  genius, 
defied  all  this  pedantry.  In  a  little  address  which 
has  been  suppressed  in  later  editions  he  said 
(December  8,  1855)  : 


326  Gossip  in  a   Library 

"  It  has  seemed  to  me  that  the  only  way  to 
tell  an  Arabian  Story  was  by  imitating  the  style 
and  manner  of  the  Oriental  Story-tellers.  But 
such  an  attempt,  whether  successful  or  not,  may 
read  like  a  translation  :  I  therefore  think  it 
better  to  prelude  this  Entertainment  by  an  avowal 
that  it  springs  from  no  Eastern  source,  and  is  in 
every  respect  an  original  Work." 

If  one  reader  of  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat  were 
to  confess  the  truth  he  would  say  that  to  him  at 
least  the  other,  the  genuine  Oriental  tales,  appear 
the  imitation,  and  not  a  very  good  imitation. 
The  true  genius  of  the  East  breathes  in  Mr. 
Meredith's  pages,  and  the  Arabian  Nights,  at  all 
events  in  the  crude  literality  of  Sir  Richard 
Burton,  pale  before  them  like  a  mirage.  The 
variety  of  scenes  and  images,  the  untiring  evolu- 
tion of  plot,  the  kaleidoscopic  shifting  of  har- 
monious colours,  all  these  seem  of  the  very 
essence  of  Arabia,  and  to  coil  directly  from  some 
bottle  of  a  genie.  Ah  !  what  a  bottle  !  As  we 
whirl  along  in  the  vast  and  glowing  bacchanal, 
we  cry,  like  Sganarelle  : 


The  Shaving  of  Shagpat        327 

^'i/s  sont  doux — 
Tiouteille  jolie^ 
^"ils  sont  doux 
'Dos  pet  its  glou-glous  ; 
Jih  !  Bouteille,  ma  mie  ; 
*Pourquoi  vous  videz-vous  ? 

Ah  !  why  indeed  ?  For  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat 
is  one  of  those  very  rare  modern  books  of 
which  it  is  certain  that  they  are  too  short,  and 
even  our  excitement  at  the  Mastery  of  the  Event 
is  tamed  by  a  sense  that  the  show  is  closing, 
and  that  Shibli  Bagarrg  has  been  too  promptly 
successful  in  smiting  through  the  Identical.  But 
perhaps  of  all  gifts  there  is  none  more  rare  than 
this  of  clearing  the  board  and  leaving  the  reader 
still  hungry. 

Who  shall  say,  in  deahng  with  such  a  book, 
what  passage  in  it  is  best  or  worst  ?  Either  the 
fancy,  carried  away  utterly  captive,  follows  the 
poet  whither  he  will,  or  the  whole  conception  is 
a  failure.  Perhaps,  after  the  elemental  splen- 
dour and  storm  of  the  final  scene,  what  clings 
most  to  the  memory  is  how  Shibli  Bagarag, 
hard  beset   in   the   Cave  of  Chrysolites,  touched 


328  Gossip  in  a  Library 


the  great  lion  with  the  broken  sapphire  hair 
of  Garraveen  ;  or  again,  how  on  the  black  coast 
of  the  enchanted  sea,  wandering  by  moonlight, 
he  found  the  sacred  Lily,  and  tore  it  up,  and 
lo  !  its  bulb  was  a  palpitating  heart  of  human 
flesh ;  or  how  Bhanavar  called  the  unwilling 
serpents  too  often,  and  failed  to  win  her  beauty 
back,  till,  at  an  awful  price  she  once  more,  and 
for  the  last  time,  contiived  to  call  her  body-guard 
of  snakes  hissing  and  screaming  around  her. 

There  is  surely  no  modern  book  so  unsullied 
as  this  is  by  the  modern  spirit,  none  in  which 
the  desire  to  teach  a  lesson,  to  refer  knowingly 
to  topics  of  the  day,  or  worst  of  all,  to  be  incon- 
tinently funny,  interferes  less  with  the  tender 
magic  of  Oriental  fancy,  or  with  the  childlike, 
earnest  faith  in  what  is  utterly  outside  the 
limits  of  experience.  It  belongs  to  that  infancy 
of  the  world,  when  the  happy  guileless  human 
being  still  holds  that  somewhere  there  is  a 
flower  to  be  plucked,  a  lamp  to  be  rubbed,  or 
a  form  of  words  to  be  spoken  Vv'hich  will  reverse 
the  humdrum  laws  of  Nature,  call  up  unwilling 
spirits  bound  to   incredible  services,  and  change 


The  Shaving  of  Shagpat         329 


all  this  brown  life  of  ours  to  scarlet  and  azure 
and  mother-of-pearl.  Little  by  little,  even  our 
children  are  losing  this  happy  gift  of  believing 
the  incredible,  and  that  class  of  writing  which 
seems  to  require  less  effort  than  any  other,  and 
to  be  a  mere  spinning  of  gold  thread  out  of 
the  poet's  inner  consciousness,  is  less  and  less 
at  command,  and  when  executed  gives  less  and 
less  satisfaction.  The  gnomes  of  Pope,  the 
fays  and  "  trilbys "  of  Nodier,  even  the  fairy- 
world  of  Doyle,  are  breathed  upon  by  a  race 
that  has  grown  up  habituated  to  science.  But 
even  for  such  a  race  it  must  be  long  before 
the  sumptuous  glow  and  rich  triumphant  humour 
of  The  Shaving  of  Shagpat  have  lost  all  their 
attraction. 


INDEX 


Abbey,  Mr.  Edwin  A.,  6 
Abuses  stript  and  whipt,  43,  47 
d'Alembert,  174 
Alfoxden,  Wordsworth  at,  254-6, 

257,  264 
All  for  Love,  Dryden's,  103 
Almahide,  Mile,  de  Scudery's,  86 
Amasia,  John  Hopkins',  135-44 
Amazoti    Queen,   Weston's,    104, 

105 
Amboyna,  Dryden's,  115 
Amory's    Life   of    John    Buncle, 

Thomas,  215-226 
Anthony,   Earl   of  Orrery's  Mr., 

Arcadia,  Sidney's,  85 
Ardelia's(Lady\Vinchilsea)/'(7««.f, 

121-32 
Arnold,  Matthew,  110,  122 
Artamenes,  85,  86 
Asses:    A    Lyrical  Ballad,    The 

Dead,  262 
AsMe,  D'Urfe's,  85 
d'Aurevilly,  M.  Barbey,  231 


Autobiography   of   Leigh    Hunt, 

288 

Baldwin,  William,  29-35 
Ballad  of  the  Book-Hiinter,  Lang's, 

95 
Bancroft's  Sertorius,   John,    103, 

104 
Barnacle  Goose  Tree,  The,  75-7 
Bayle,  181 
Beaumont,    Peter   Betl   and    Sir 

George,  259-60 
Behn,  Mrs.  Aphra,  96,  164 
Benjamin  the  Wagi^oncr,  262-3. 
Blener  Hasset,  Thomas,  34 
Boccaccio,  30 
Boethius,  4 
Boitard,  Louis,  204 
Book-plates,  5-6 
Boswell,  James,  193 
Bouilhet,  Louis,  272 
Boxiana,  Egan's,  273,  279 
Boyle's  Parthenissa,  Roger,  90 
Bradshaw,  Library  of  Henry,  308 


332 


Index 


Britannia,   Brooke's  Discovery  of 

Errors  in,  i8 
Britannia,  Camden's,  13-24 
British  Princes,  Howard's,  99 
Brooke,  Christopher,  45 
Brooke,  Ralph,  19,  20 
Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  74 
Browne,  William,  44,  45,  49 
Browning,  Robert,  185,  198,  199 
Brummell,  Beau,  231,  237 
Brunfelsius,  Otto,  68 
Buncle,    Amory's    Life    of  John, 

215-26 
Burger's  Lenore,  246 
Burney,  Fanny,  323 
Byron,  259,  260,  286 

Callimachus,  311,  312 
Calprenede,  La,  82-88,  164 
Cambridge  described  by  Camden, 

23 
Camden's  Britannia,  13-24 

Campbell,  Mr.  J,  Dykes,  260 

Campion,  Thomas,  114 

Carew,  Thomas,  115 

Carlisle,  James,  104 

Carnival,  Porter's,  100 

Cassandra,  LaCalprenMe's,84,85 

Cats,  173-182, 

Caylus,  Count,  182 

Chenvell     Water   Lily,    Fabers, 

Ihz^  298,  301 
Cibber,  Theophilus,  122 
Cli'lie,  Mile,  de  Scudery's,  85,  88, 

90 
Cleopatra,  La  Calprenfede's,  85,  86, 

88,  91 


Cleotnina,  Eliza  Haywood's  Secret 
History  of,  169 

Cobden-Sanderson,  Mr.  8 

Coleridge,  S.  T.,  245,  255,  2564 
262 

Congreve,  William,  96,  136 

Constant  Couple,  Farquhar's,  143, 
148 

Corcoran,  Peter,  i  e,  J.  H.  Rey- 
nold's, 273,  279 

Cornwall,  Barry,  276 

Cory,  William  see  Johnson, 
William 

Coventry,  Henry,  206 

Coventry,  Rev.  Franci<;,  204-11 

Coypel,  Drawings  by,  182 

Croker,  J.  W.,  289 

Cromwell,  Oliver,  113 

"  Crusions,"  197 

Cyrus,  Le  Grand,  B^ 

David,  Smart's  Song  to,  194,  195- 

99 
Davies  of  Hereford,  John,  47,  91 
Death's  Duel,  55-63 
Defoe,  Daniel,  163 
Dennis,  John,  109,  117 
Deshouliere,  Mme. ,  178 
De  Tabley,  Lord,  6 
Dialogues,  La  Mothe  le  Vayer's, 

179 
Diary  of  a   Lover  of  Literature, 

Green's,  241-50 
Dioscorides  of  Anazarba,  68 
Disraeli's  Coningsby,  296 
Dodonceus,  Rembertus,  68,  69 
Donne,  Dr.  John,  55-63 


Index 


333 


Dryden,  John,  96,  98,  99,  103, 
104,    106,    III,    115,    117,    136, 

245 
Dryden,      John,       Funeral       of, 

156-7 
Dunciad,  Pope's,  162 
Dupuy,  Mile.,  181 
D'Urfe's  Astrie,  85 
"Dwale"  (nightshade),  72 

Egan's  Boxiana,  Pierce,  373,  279, 
281 

Egoist,  Meredith's,  The,  325 

England s  Trust,  Lord  John  Man- 
ners', 395-304 

Englind's  Worthies,  Winstan- 
ley's,  113,  115 

English  Ballads,  Lord  John  Man- 
ners', 304 

English  Poets,  Winstanley's  Lives 

of,  \C^-\'J 

English  Poets,  Ward's,  122 
Epistolary  Poems  of  C.  Hopkins, 

136 
Epsom  Wells,  Shadwell's,  125 
Excursion,  Wordsworth's,  no 

Faper,  Rev.   Frederick  William, 

300,  301,  302 
Fall  of  Princes,  Lydgate's,  30 
Fancy,     The,     J.    H.     Reynold's, 

271-81 
Farmer,  Dr.,  186 
Farquhar,  George,  143,  148-57 
Fatal  Friendship,  Mrs.  Trotter's, 

153 
Feast  of  the  Poets,  The,  287 


Ferrers,  George,  28,  29,  30,  31,  32, 

35 
Field,  Barron,  260,  288 
Fielding,  Henry,  208,  248 
Finch,  Poems  of  Anne  (Lady  Win- 

chilsea),  121-32 
Finch,    Heneage,    Earl  of   Win- 

chilsea,  124,  130 
First  editions,  attractions  of,  7-8 
FitzGerald,  Edward,  244  250 
Fortune  Hunters,  The,  104 
Fuchsius,  Leonard,  69 

Garde?t    of  Florence,    Reynold's, 

276 
Gardiner,  Lord  Chancellor  Stephen , 

30 
Garrick,  David,  194 

Garth,  Dr.,  157 

Gerard,  John,  67-77 

Gibbons,  Dr.,  142 

Gifford,  William,  285,  287-91 

Gladstone,  W.  E.,  298 

Goldsmith,  Oliver, 210,  211,229-38 

Gombreville,  82,  87 

Goose  Tree,  The,  75 

Grafton,  Isabella,  Duchess  of,  138, 
142 

Gray,  Thomas,  123,  188,  189,  192, 
193,  194,  204 

Green,   Thomas,  242-250 

Green's  Diary  of  a  Lover  of  Litera- 
ture, 241-250 

Grundtvig,  Bishop,  59 

Harrington's  Oceana,  10 
Harvey,  Rev.  R.  196,  197 


334 


Index 


Haslewood,  31 

Hunt,  Leigh,   44,  259,   263,    276 

Hawkesvvorth,  John,  194 

285-291 

Haywood,  Eliza,  162-9 

Hurd,  Bishop  of  Worcester,  246 

Hazlitt,     William,    42,    225,    256, 

Hyde,  Edward,  Earl  of  Clarendon, 

257,  291 

62 

Heliodorus,  84 

Heraclitus,  Alexandrian  poet,  311 

Ibrahim,  Mils,  de  Scudery's,  85 

Herbal,  Gerard's,  67-77 

Idalia,  Eliza  Haywood's,  163,  167 

Lyte's    translation  of  Dodo- 

lonica,    Mr.    William   Johnson's, 

noeus,  68,  69 

307-17 

Dr.    Priest's    translation,     of 

lot  lie  a  //. ,  317 

Dodonceus,  69 

Herrick,  Robert,  116 

Jeffrey,  Francis,  no, 

Hesketh,  Yorkshire  botanist,  Mr. , 

Jenyns,  Soame,  244,  240,  247 

73 

Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  193 

Hesperides,  Herrick's,  116 

Johnson,  Thomas,  69,  70 

Hill,  Aaron,  162 

Johnson,  Mr.  William,  309-17 

Hill,  Dr.  John,  192 

lonica,  307-17 

Hilliad,  Smart's  The,  192 

Jonson,  Ben,  51 

Historic    Fancies,     Lord   Strang- 

Joyner,  William,  97,  98 

ford's,  298 

Jusserand,  J.  J.,  English  Novel  in 

Hoare,  William,  232 

the  Tiine  of  Shakespeare,  91 

Holland,  Dr.  Philemon,  14,  22 

Hop  Garden,  Smart's  7/2^,186,192 

Keats,  John,  276,  287,  291,  311 

Hopkins,      Ezekiel,      Bishop     of 

King,  Dr.  Henry,  61,  62 

Derry,  136,  138,  141 

Kip,  William,  21 

Hopkins,  Charles,  136 

Hopkins,  John,  136-144 

Lamb,  Charles,  42,  no,  258,  267 

Amasia,  135-144 

Lang,  Mr.  Andrew,  95 

Hopkins,    Lady   Araminta;    138, 

La  Rochefoucauld,  83 

141 

Lauzun,  237 

Houghton  on  Pe/er  Bell,  Lord, 

Le  Gallienne,  Mr.  Richard,  324 

263-4 

Lee,  Nathaniel,  103,  104 

Hove,  F.  H.  van,  (engraver),  137 

Le  Grand  Cyrus,  85,  86,  go 

Howard,  Hon.  Edward,  98 

Lenore,  Burger's,  246 

Humorous  Lovers,  Duke  of  New- 

Les Chats,  Moncrif's,  173-182 

castle's,  100,  lOI 

Lesdiguieres,  Duchess  of,  179,  182 

Index 


335 


Lethrs  of  Lord  Chesterfield,  248 

Liberal,  The,  286 

Literature,  Diary  of  a  Lover  of, 

241-250 
Locker-Lampson,  Mr.  F.  4 
Lombard,  the  antiquary,  18 
Longueville,  Madame  de,  83 
Loveday,  91 
Lave   and  a  Bottle,    Farquhar's, 

143,  148 
Love  and  Business,    Farquhar's, 

147-157 
Love  in  Excess,  Eliza  Haywood's, 
163,  166-7 

Manners,   Lord  John,  see  Rut- 
land, Duke  of, 
Marot,  Clement,  180 
Marshalsea  Prison,  43 
Marvell,  Andrew,  114,  123 
Memoirs  of  a  Lady  of  Quality, 

203 
Memoirs    of   Several    Ladies    of 

Great  Britain,  Am  cry's  2t6 
Mentzelius,  Christian,  3,  5 
Meredith,  George,  323-29 

The    Shaving   of    Shagpat, 

32T-29 
Milton,  John,  iio-ii,  113, 114,  115 
Mimnermus  in  Church,  Johnson's 

314 

Mirror  for  Magistrates,  A,  27-38 
Miscellany  Poems,  Ardelia's,  121- 

132 
Mil  ford,  John,  243 
Mithridates,  Lees,  103 
M  II  Flanders,  Defoe's,  163 


Moncrif,     Augustin    Paradis    de, 

173-182 
Montagu,   Lady   Mary    Wortley, 

206,  207 
Moore's  Tom  Crib,  Thomas,  277 
Murray,  John,  289 

Nash,  Beau,  229-238 
Neil,  Mr.  R.  A.,  187 
Newbery,  the  publisher,  186,  rgt, 

230,  231 
Newcastle's     Humorous     Lovers, 

Duke  of,  100,  loi 
Newman,  Cardinal,  300 
Niccols,  Robert,  34,  35 
Nichols,  John  Bowyer,  117 
Norden,  John,  21 
Nottingham,   Sonnet  to  the  Earl 

of,  36 

Oceana,  Harrington's,  10 
Orford,  Countess  of,  Potnfey  the 

Little,  207 
Orrery,  Earl  of,  105 
Ortelius,  Abraham,  r6,  17 
Osborne,  Dorothy,  84,  85,  go 
Otten,  engraver,  182 
Otway,  Thomas,  96,  105,  106 

Pamela,  Richardson's,  164,  i6g 
Parlcyings.  Browning's,  185 
Parr,  Dr.  Samuel,  246,  247 
Pai-thcnissa,  Bo3le's,  90 
Payne,  John,  68 

Percy,   Bishop  of  Dromore,    Dr. 
Thomas,  117 


336 


Index 


Peter    Bell:    A    Tale   in    Verse, 

Wordsworth's,  253-67 
Peter  Bell:    A   Lyrical  Ballad, 

Hamilton's,  261,  262,  276 
Peter  Bell  the    Third,   Shelley's, 

263,  276 
"  Peter  Corcoran,"  273,  277,  279 
Pharamond,      La     Calpren^de's, 

81-92 
Philemon  to  Hydaspes,  Coventry's, 

206 
Phillips,  John,  91 
Pindar,  Peter,  105 
Plays,  A  volume  of  old,  95-106 
Poems    of    Anne     Finch,     Lady 

Winchilsea,  121-32 
Poems  of  Christopher  Smart,  185, 

200 
Poems  of  Duke  of  Rutland,   (Lord 

John  Manners),  285-304 
Poet  in  Prison,  A,  (  The  Shepheard' s 

Hunting),  41-52 
Poets,  A  Censor  of,  109-117 
Poets,     Winstanley's     Lives      of 

English,  1 09-1 17 
Polexandre,     Gomberville's,     84, 

85 
Pompey  the  Little,  F.   Coventry's 

203-1 r 
Pope,    Alexander,    42,    131,    162, 

192 
Porter,  Major  Thomas,  100 
Prelude,  Wordsworth's    The,  259 
Priest,  Dr.,  69,  70 

QUEENSBURV,    DuchcSS    of,     233, 

237 


Rabelais,  225 

Radcliffe,  Dr.,  236 

Randall,  John,  275,  278 

Ravenscroft,  Edward,  96,  103 

Reynolds,  Peter  Bell,  ]Qh.w  Hamil- 
ton, 261,  262,  276 

The  Fancy,  276-81 

Rimini,  Leigh  Hunt's,  285 

Robinson,  Henry  Crabb,  258 

Robinson,  Perdita,  291 

Rocca,  Angela,  i 

Roman  Empress,  Joyner's,  97,  98 

Ronsard,  178 

Rossetti,  Dante  Gabriel,  321 

Roubilliac,  192 

Rowe,  Nicholas,  131 

Roy,  175 

Rutland,  Poems  of  John  Manners, 
Duke  of,  295-304 

Sackville,  Lord  Buckhurst, 
Thomas,  28,  29 

Sadler,  258 

Sainte-Beuve,  no 

Sandford,  Mrs.,  255 

Scarron,  179 

Scott,  Sir  Walter,  246,  259,  260 

Scud^ry,  Mile,  de,  82,  86,  87,  90. 
164 

Sedley,  Sir  Charle.<;,  97 

Scrtorius,  Bancroft's,  103,  104,  106 

Settle,  Elkanah,  96 

Sevigne,  Madame  de,  83 

Shad  well,  Thomas,  96,  125 

Shaving  of  Shagpat,  George  Mere- 
dith's, 321-29 

Shelley,  no,  263,  276,  291 


Index 


337 


Shepheard's    Hunting,    Wither's, 

The,  41-52 
Shirley,  James,  lor,  iC2 
Sir  Harry   Wildair,  Farquhar's, 

148 
Skelton's  contributicn  to  Mirror 

for  Magistrates,  33 
Smart,  Christopher,  185-199 
Smollett,  Tobias,  203 
Solly,  Edward,  2 
Southerne,  Thomas,  96 
Southey,  Robert,  257,  267,  289 
Spleen,  Ode  on  the,  125 
Stecchetti,  Lorenzo,  277 
Strangford,  Lord,  296,  297,  298 
Suckling,  Sir  John,  116 
Swift,  Dean,  41,  219 

THArKEKAY,  W.  M.,  274 

Tom  Crib,  Moore's,  277 
Tom  Jones,  Fielding's,  164,  203 
Tradescant,  John,  73 
Trotter's  Fatal  Friendship,  Cathe- 
rine, 153 
Turner,  J   NL  W ,  247,  248 
Tyers,  Rev.  T.,  193 

Ultra-crepidurius,  Leigh  Hunt's, 
285-91  


Usurper,  Howard's,  98,  99 

■Vanbrugh's  .-Esop,  236 
Vane,  Lady,  203 
Vaughan,  Henry,  114 
Vayer,  La  Mothe  le,  179 
Verrall,  Dr.  A  W.,  197 
Voliaire,  174,  192 

Waggoner,    Wordsworth's,    The, 

263 
IVagooncr,  Benjamin  the,  262-3 
j    Walker,  engraver,  Anthony,  232, 

233 
Walpole,  Horace,  204 
Walton,  Iza.ik,  57,  63 
Warhurton,  246,  248 
Weston's  Amazon  Queen,  104 
What  Ann  Lang  Read,  161-9 
Wife  to  be  Left,  Eliza  Haywood's 

A,  168 
Winchilsea,  Anne,  Lady,   121-32 
Winstanley,  Wilham,  109,   110-17 
Withi^r,  George,  41-52,  116 
Wordsworth,   William,    no,    121, 

123,  253-67 

Lyrical  Ballads,  245.  256 

Wycherleyj  William,  104,  125 
'  Young  England,'  296-7,  298 


GOSSIP    IN    A   LIBRARY. 


Some  ©pinions  of  tbc  iPress. 

Atken(2tim. — "  There  is  a  touch  of  Leigh  Hunt  in  this  picture  of 
the  book-lover  among  his  books,  and  the  volume  is  one  that  Leigh 
Hunt  would  have  delighted  in.  .  .  .  Mr.  Gosse  has  the  uncommon 
merit  of  stopping  so  soon  that  his  readers  are  left  with  the  agree- 
able desire  for  more But  how  cleverly  and  amusingly  Mr. 

Gosse  revives  for  us,  on  a  momentary  stage,  that  brilliant,  exquisite, 
artificial  period  of  the  beaux,  and  the  wits,  when  George  Farquhar 
took  his  coffee  at  White's  and  heard  the  nightingales  in  Spring 
Gardens ! " 

Saturday  Review. — "A  book  as  pleasant  as  it  is  pretty.  Mr. 
Gosse  has  shown  himself  competent  to  write  bibliophily  in  an  ex- 
cellent manner." 

National  Obscfocr. —  "A  charming  book,  wherein  is  scarce  a  dull 
page  from  beginning  to  end." 

Spectator. — "  Mr.  Gosse's  lively  style  gives  a  piquant  fiavonr  to  his 
pages." 

St.  James's  Gazette. — "An  exquisitely  pretty  book." 

Notes  and  Queries. — "  Mr.  Gosse's  new  volume  belongs  to  a  class 
of  which  the  genuine  book-lover  has  always  shown  himself  specially 
fond.  He  writes  sympathetically  and  well,  his  estimates  will  be 
generally  accepted,  and  the  task  of  reading  his  volume  is  one  of  the 
pleasantest  conceivable." 

Literary  Opifiion. — "Mr.  Gos.se  is  one  of  those  happy  mortals 
who  possess  the  gift  of  expressing  themselves  pleasantly  in  speech 
and  in  writing  It  would  be  a  great  delight  to  us  to  let  our  readers 
share  in  detail  the  pleasure  we  have  gained  from  the  perusal  of  this 
book." 

Black  and  White. — "  There  is  no  man  in  English  letters  so  capable 
of  succeeding  in  this  task  as  Mr.  Gosse,  and  succeed  he  does  to  the 
full." 

Anti-Jacobin. — "  Mr.  Gosse  has  a  strong  sense  of  the  strength  of 
literature.  Beneath  the  exterior  graces  of  style  lies  a  sound  structure 
of  bone  and  sinew,  the  substantial  force  of  thought." 


Some  ©piniOna  of  tbe  t>XC66~ Continued. 


Dnilv  Chronicle. — "  Book  lovers  will  find  much  to  charm  them 
in  Mr.  Gosse's  plea  ant  volume  It  reveals  competf^nt  knovvleHue 
and  breadth  of  sympathy  ;  it  is  moreover,  alert  and  graceful  in  style, 
aiid  it  is  attractively  got  up," 

Joh>i  Bull.'—"  Mr.  Gosse  is  a  collector  as  well  as  a  critic,  and  in 
the  introductory  note  prefixeo  to  the  present  volntne  discourses  lov- 
ingly and  tenderly  about  books  from  the  collector's  point  of  view 
.  .  .  ,  We  must  content  ourselves  with  recording  our  liitjh  opinion  of 
the  results  of  his  first  vovage  autour  de sa  bihliothcque  and  commend- 
ing it  to  that  popular  approval  to  which  it  cannot  be  doubted  that 
the  admirable  manner  m  wiiich  his  publisher  has  reproduced  those 
results  will   not  a  little  contribute.  AH  true  lovers  of  books 

will  be  sure  to  add  this  one  to  their  colleclion,  alike  from  its  external 
and  internal  recommendations." 

Literarv  WorM—"  It  i';  in  a  book  of  this  kind  thnf  Mr.  Gosse  is 
to  be  seen  at  his  best.  He  has  a  real  love  for  linTarure.  especi.iUy 
for  old  authors  and  old  books.  He  has  explored  puihs  that  turn 
aside  from  the  beaten  track.     He  is  sympathetic." 

Tke  Queen.—"  The  plan  of  this  book  is  easy.  Mr.  Gosse  scans 
his  shelf  and  takes  down  some  old  book,  not  at  random,  I  expect, 
for  his  shelves  have  been  filled  with  care.  He  gives  to  each  a  few 
pages  of  easy  and  delightful  talk.' 

Tlie  .Star. — "  Mr.  Gosse's  book  rather  invites  one  to  chat  with 
him  th.in  review.  One  by  one,  he  lifts  down  his  treasures  for 
his  svm pathetic  visitor,  and  that  is  the  whole  scheme  of  his  delight- 
ful book." 

Liverpool  Mercury.— "  An  exceptionally  delightful  volume  of  chatty 
talk  about  rare  books  and  quaint  authors." 

Manchester  ry«rj>r.—  "  Those  whose  literary  palate  is  delicate 
will  find  a  dainty  feast  in  the  pages  of  Mr.  Gosse— a  graceful  com- 
bination of  thorough  knowledge  and  perfect  good  taste,  not  often  to 
be  met  with  now-a  days." 

Gali^nani's  Messenger. — "  The  reader  can  spend  many  a  pleasant 
and  profitable  half-hour  with  Mr.  Gosse  in  his  '  Gossip  in  a  Library.'  " 

Glasgoiv  Her. Id.— "  It  is  in  his  own  library  that  Mr.  Gosse 
gossips  with  us  ;  and  verv  pleasant  gossip  it  is,  made  up,  as  he  him- 
self says,  of  a  little  criticism,  a  little  anecdote,  and  a  little  biblio- 
graphy." ,    .         tA 


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